


Cocaine Blues

by Trivialqueen



Series: Lady Edith's Murder Mysteries [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Abortion, Although Anthony Strallan does not appear in person this is part one of an Andith Series, Author is American/this is not Brit-picked, Canon typical Ableism/Internalized Ableism, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Eventual Andith endgame, F/F, F/M, Individual chapters may contain other warnings, Inspired by Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Minor footnote abuse, Murder Mystery, Spoiler - He dies, This is not nice to Michael Gregson, not remotely historically accurate, the author only did so much homework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trivialqueen/pseuds/Trivialqueen
Summary: Shortly after her wedding-that-wasn’t and the death of her youngest sister, Lady Edith Crawley accepts a position as a columnist at The Sketch magazine. She moves to London, hoping to restart her life. Edith’s new life and newfound modernity is tested when her boss, Michael Gregson, is found dead. Edith-centric, with some focus on past Edith/Anthony relationship, featuring several original characters and one murder mystery.A Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries Inspired AU. Part I of a series.
Relationships: OFC/OFC, Past Edith Crowley/ Anthony Strallan, Working toward an Andith future
Series: Lady Edith's Murder Mysteries [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650550
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. 0. Author’s Preface (a few notes before we begin)

First and foremost: I do not own Downton Abbey, any characters or situations related to it. If you recognize it, it’s probably not mine. The mistakes, however – those are all mine.

A few notes before we begin:

_One,_ there are going to be murders and amateur detective work throughout. This was heavily inspired by the Miss Fisher’s series and the episode _Cocaine Blues_. It’s going to be very familiar to any fans of the books/show. All credit where credit is due, as much as I watch mystery shows and read detective novels, I am not actually good at planning out murders.

_Two,_ **there will be discussions of abortion** as well as what can happen to a woman when an abortion is not done properly. I have done my best not to be graphic, but it is a part of the plot. I will place warnings in the notes for any chapters where the procedure and aftermath are discussed if this is something you wish to avoid. In addition to abortion **there may also be instances of period (and canon) typical ableism/internalized ableism, homophobia, sexism, strong language, and general bad taste**. I will try to mark any chapters that are going to be delving into any of these topics (and others) in depth, but just know that throughout there might be instances of any and all of the above. 

_Three,_ this is not going to be particularly historically accurate. And I apologize in advance for this fact. While I don’t plan on going full post-modern, there will be times I will have simply not done my homework. I hope you can suspend your disbelief. Furthermore, it is probably quite obvious by now that I am an American therefore not only will my spelling have a distinct lack of ‘u’s but I also have no beta and no one to brit-pick this. I apologize if I completely miss the nuances of London, Yorkshire, or the aristocracy.

_Four,_ there’s going to be a slug of original characters bouncing around alongside some canon favorites. In this vein, and in line with point one, this is going to be full blown AU starting more or less after episode four of season three. Chronology might get moved around, people might live, people might die who do/do not in canon, and so forth. Speaking of death, this story in particular is not very nice to Michael Gregson. Sorry to spoil it for you, Michael Gregson is going to be dead in about three chapters. If you adore him, I’m sorry, back out now or forever hold your peace.

_Five,_ While Sir Anthony Strallan does not personally appear in _this_ story, I do have plans to make this a series. The series will be Andith (aka Sir Anthony Stallan/Lady Edith Crawley) cnetric. I’m using this story to set up the new, alternative universe and for Edith to get herself sorted and settled. He will however be mentioned, _a lot_. I’m a shipper, I loved him, and he’s the endgame. If you don’t like him/this pairing back out now or forever hold your peace.


	2. I. 18 October 1920 [Monday]

_The past is prologue. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._ Clichés were on Lady Edith Crawley’s mind, most likely because they were all over the draft of her latest journalistic endeavor. Each one was an affront to her sensibilities, and she was itching to begin her red pen purge. She had not moved to London to be cliché, she’d moved to London to, at twenty-eight, begin living (this was in itself perhaps the most cliché of her clichés, but she steadfastly refused to acknowledge that, as was her right).

The rebirth of Edith Crawley had begun with a letter. Well, a reply really. An offer. Offer was both accurate and sounded more literary. The offer was a position as a featured columnist in _The Sketch_ magazine. Encouraged by _Him_ she had several months ago sent out a few pieces she had written. At the time they had been her means of coping with the world, impassioned arguments against imaginary foes (only most of them were unexpressed rebuttals to her father’s politics) about what challenges she thought face Britain and what best to do about them: Veterans: Honoring them without actually helping their material, mental, and physical wellbeing was hollow. Women: Well before the war half the population had demonstrated great capabilities but after their efforts on the Homefront, to deny the vote to a group who had sacrificed and suffered (just because, as Sybil once angrily put it, they did not have a penis,) was ludicrous, illogical, and offensive, and so on. In the excitement of her engagement and the depression that followed she’d forgotten she had contacted publishers. Then she heard back from _The Sketch_. Now here she was, paid to write. She’d like to think that at least Sybil would be proud of her. She’d grabbed the offer with both hands and did her best not to look back.

The second daughter of the seventh Earl of Grantham entered _The Sketch_ main office with a determined bounce in her step. This was her shot. She would not throw away her shot.

“Morning Edith.” Opal Larson greeted her warmly as she entered the office. The auburn-haired woman was already seated at her desk, pince-nez glasses perched on her slightly snub nose. Opal was Michael Gregson’s personal secretary and the office manager for the editorial side of the magazine. The artistic aspect of _The Sketch_ was handled on the floor below, managed by an equally effective but decidedly less personable woman name Weaver. Edith was content to have only met the woman once. She reminded her of the unpleasant German governess she and Patrick hid from as children.

“Hello Opal. How are you?”

“I am as I ever will be until they make something stronger than coffee – tolerable and awake.” Even without a terrible foil to improve her Edith would have liked Opal, behind her exceptionally sweet face and bright voice was a dry and wicked mind.

“Tolerable and awake are still a far sight better than some.” Edith found herself quipping, cocking an eyebrow at the darkened glass office of the Editor-in-Chief.

“Best make yourself comfortable, I have no idea when he will be in, he hasn’t telephoned, and he has no appointments until much later. His Lordship will deign us with his presence eventually. No offence.”

Another quality Edith admired about Opal was how little she paid attention to titles. She could use them properly – there was no Lady Crawley or other slips, but she also did not hang on them. All her life people deferred – at times even sniveled because she was a _Lady_. Her family expected this reverence. They were special, they were _peers_. Edith found this constant eggshell walking tiresome. Also, if she wanted her modern independence, she damn well couldn’t hold her family name over everyone.

“Miss Larson that is no way to apologize to a _Lady_ for offense caused.” Her most devoted syncopate was here. Opal had been concerned for no reason.

“Mr. Gregson, good morning.”

“Michael, please, Lady Edith.” He did have a nice smile and he flashed it at her as he spoke. It was not nearly as nice as other, shier, warmer smiles… _No Edith Violet none of that._

“Then, once again, I must insist, I’m simply Edith.” Gregson crossed to his office, throwing her another smile so bright it could light Piccadilly.

“There’s nothing simple about you, Edith.” Opal’s bark of a laugh only vaguely sounds like a cough. Edith wished she could be so free with her reactions. She’d not heard many flirtatious statements in her life, growing up next to Mary and Sybil, but that was hands down the worst.

“I have a draft of my article ready for your first round of comments. I confess I like my topic, but I’m underwhelmed by my prose. Your criticism is not just welcomed its needed – badly.”

“Lay-Edith, I sincerely doubt there is even a comma splice.” It was a monumental feat of self-restraint that kept her from rolling her eyes.

“Your confidence in me is appreciated if misplaced.” For a moment Gregson appeared like he might protest but ultimately did not. Thank God. She was in no mood to get into a flattery. If the editor wished to charm her, he would do better identifying what was off in her argument rather than trying to convince her it was perfect when it plainly was not. _He_ was always so good with critique – clear, precise, critical yet supportive and kind.

_Edith,_ she scolded herself. The first stop toward moving on was to stop comparing other men to _Him,_ or at least his positive attributes. Gregson probably would not wait until the vows to tell her he had doubts. He skimmed her article, eyes skipping along the prose like a stone across a lake. His perusal offered a few minutes of silence for Edith to observe her surroundings. She had been in Michael Gregson’s office five times now. The first time she had been rather overwhelmed – by both the offer and the amount of wood in his office, it was like she’d stepped inside of an oak tree. Wood floors, wooden shelves, large wooden desk, and even larger wooden bar. Beadboard and wainscoting, chair rail all in the same stain. What was not wooden was painted a very dull ecru. Edith was not an architect by any stretch, but she had grown up with Cora Levinson Crawley for a mother. Detail and design were inherited on the material side. Michael Gregson’s décor was an affront.

Three of her subsequent visits were spent cataloging all the decorative differences she would make if given the opportunity. This visit she felt confident in the colors she would use to highlight the beautiful detail work on the ceiling and turned her attention to the bookcases. Shelves were built into the wall opposite the desk, and thus behind Edith. Even though he was reading it would be rude to turn her back on the editor to stare around his office. It also wasn’t necessary, one look at the shelves told her what she needed to know – they were beautiful five shelves, deep, and nearly empty of books. There were several lovely pieces clearly imported or brought back personally from abroad and while Edith would never begrudge a person the rhetorical device of a souvenir, it felt so unbalanced - all the knickknacks and no literature. The library at Downton was by far more well-rounded, a balance of books with art and sentimental pieces.

First thing she would do if she had those shelves would be to fill them appropriately – with books. Periodicals, copies of _The Sketch_ would not go amiss. She could not fully trust a person who did not have books. Then, once she’d collected the texts she wanted, she’d work on collecting the memories and mementos.

“Like I predicted, this is just perfect, Edith.” He had finished his “reading”, he could not have paid too much attention if he thought it was perfect.

“All the same, Mr. Gregson, I think I can make it better. Do you have any suggestions? Even just to vary the word choice.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s fit to print, Edith. However, if you wish to fiddle with perfection the boys in printing won’t need final copy for another week.” Edith nodded and reached for her draft. He withheld it. “What did I say about calling me Michael?” There was that smile again, handsome and oh so charming.

“I’ll get you a final draft to sign off on before then, Michael.” Edith smiled back.

**#**

“Opal, may I impose upon you for a favor?” The effective assistance looked up from her typing.

“What can I do for you?”

“I have a draft of my article that is in desperate need of editing, However, Mr. Gregson seems to be willfully blind to its faults. Would you please do me the tremendous favor of telling me what is wrong with my agreement. I cannot put my finger on it.” Opal extended her hand for the pages.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much, Opal. Please do not hesitate to rip it apart.” Opal took her Oxford spectacles off and rubbed the red marks on the bridge of her nose. She smiled.

“I’ll give it a good look. How about you stop by my flat for dinner, say Wednesday?” Lori, my flat mate, tells me I’m harsh. Food will soften the blow I think.” Edith laughed.

“That does sound lovely. You must tell me what I should bring.”

“Aside from a thick skin?”

“Aside from that.” Growing up with an older sister like Mary meant if nothing else Edith’s skin was quite thick.

“I’ll consult with Lori and let you know.”

“Do!”

**#**

Edith returned to Bond House after her morning at _The Sketch_ office and an early afternoon errand. She had been staying with her Aunt Rosamund since she came to London, a month ago. After the Wedding-That-Wasn’t her father had been uncharacteristically sympathetic and offered to open Grantham House for he to hide in.

For her to bury her shame in the house would be hers, but for her writing career Edith had not even bothered to ask. She had leaned over the years to pick her battles. Aunt Rosamund was a God-sent. She understood. Neither Cora, nor Robert understood Edith like Rosamund Painswick. When she was little Edith used to dream she was really Rosamund’s daughter raised at Downton for secret reasons. It explained why she looked so unlike her sisters. Alas, and alack, this was not a gothic novel, but only her sad life. Aunt Rosamund was not her mother, but she was a wonderful champion, nonetheless. She had welcomed her into her home for the indefinite future, and even taken out an enthusiastic subscription to _The Sketch_ once Edith was made a fulltime contributor, something she was certain her own parents had not done.

Edith found her aunt in the sitting room, cup of tea in one hand and worn copy of _The Tempest_ in the other. She hadn’t changed out of her day dress, but had thrown on over the top a long, unfashionable, old cardigan. Edith recognized it, fondly, as one of Uncle Marmaduke’s sweaters. Marmaduke Painswick had not been a diamond of the first water, but he had dearly loved Aunt Rosamund and Rosamund had dearly loved him. Together they had given her some of her happiest memories. Uncle Marm, as she often called him, had also loved Shakespeare. He’d wooed Rosamund with the Bard. He could recite all of the major passages at the drop of the hat and often he’d drop the hat himself. _Always have a monologue prepared, you don’t know when you’ll need it,_ he’d often say. Marm had made her learn a few, when she was little, quizzing her on them every night they were together. She’d forgotten most of what he’d drilled her on in the intervening years, but there were a few passages that she could recite in his memory.

“ _Be not afeared; the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight, and hurt not._ ” Rosamund looked up, tipping her head back against the wingback and smiling at her middle niece. She closed the book over her finger. _The Tempest_ had been Marmaduke’s particular favorite, of the comedies at least. Rosamund read it every year around his birthday.

“I’m not quite there yet.” She said with a small, sat grin. “How was your day, dearheart?” Edith slipped her shoes off and curled up on the sofa as her Aunt rang for Mead to bring another teacup.

“Fine,” Edith sighed. “I’m having some trouble with my latest article.” Mead arrived with the teacup and a fresh pot of tea as they talked through her argument as well as all the tangents they found along the way.

“Do you have great plans for dinner Wednesday?” Edith finally asked, the tea drunk down to the dregs.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about that.” Rosamund shifted in her seat.

“Oh?”

“You first.” Edith, shifted on the sofa, tilting her knees to the other side. It would be the first time since she’d had a social engagement of her own since she’d begun living with Rosamund. She could _feel_ her Aunt’s perceptive gaze bore into her.

“I’ve been invited to dinner, Wednesday, by a colleague from work. If we’ve no prior engagement, I’d like to accept the invitation.”

“Oh, thank God!” Rosamund let out a whoop. “It’s about time, dearheart, I was beginning to worry about you.” Rosamund rubbed her hands together with a clap. She’d not pushed, she’d not pried the entire time Edith had been staying with her. Oh, she’d drug her out to various outings – teas, charity committee meetings, the occasional concert, dress fittings and the like. But she’d not said a word when Edith shut herself in her room or the library, when she stayed home. Rosamund’s silent understanding was a blessing, but with each passing week it had become more and more a curse. It had not started as pity but pity it had become.

“So, you won’t mind if I don’t dine with you Wednesday?”

“Mind! Edie, dearheart, heaven’s no.” Rosamund leaned forward in her chair, a smart smile playing across her marsala colored lips.

“You wanted to talk to me about Wednesday, yourself?” Edith prompted.

“Yes, well, I was going to say: it’s time, dearheart.”

“Time?” Edith knew what her Aunt was getting at, although she wished she didn’t. As much as Rosamund understood her and loved her, Rosamund was still very much Violet Crawley’s daughter.

“Time you got out there again.” That Dowager Countess gleam was in her grey eyes and Edith knew that Rosamund wasn’t just talking about going to a play. “I was planning on throwing a little dinner party, just a small get together…” there it was. She should be grateful, Rosamund had given her months before throwing eligible bachelors at her.

“Just a few friends?” Edith asked wryly Aunt Rosamund did have the good grace to give her a rueful smile.

“Dearheart, it was a disappointment and a setback, but it’s time to start moving forward again. I don’t have any expectations for the night, truly, but you need to get your feet wet again.” _A disappointment._ Just a little “setback”. She’d felt her heart smash into a million jagged pieces, cutting and stabbing her until she bled dry at the altar of Downton church. She didn’t want to get her feet wet, never again. She wanted to hate _Him_ for what he had done to her, but she found she couldn’t – not really. And since she couldn’t hate _him_ , she wanted _him_ back. She’d do anything to have _him_ back in her life again, with his shy, lopsided smiles, perceptive blue eyes, smart tweeds, and smarter conversations. But since she couldn’t have that either, she wanted nothing more than to be left alone with a cat, a well-stocked library, and an even better stocked wine cellar.

“You really have no expectations?” Edith challenged her aunt, an eyebrow arched so clear and high it was unmistakable who her grandame was. Rosamund returned the look tenfold, that imperious, knowing look was less watered down in her, after all. 

“I expect you to be prompt, polite, and pleasant and nothing beyond that.” The ‘this time’ was implied. There was no way she could put her Aunt off, not while living under her roof for so long and having the hope to remain far longer yet.

“I will mind all of my ‘p’s and even my ‘q’s, if you would schedule this ‘get together’ any day but Wednesday.” Rosamund sat back in her chair, Cheshire cat smile splitting her features.

“Dearheart, I’ll do you one better and give you a full week’s reprieve.”

**#**

Edith retreated to her room later that evening, she and Aunt Rosamund had taken dinner in the less formal breakfast room. They hadn’t bothered to change for dinner, it was just the two of them and a plate of cold chicken Provençal with dilly beans and white bean tapenade on baguettes – neither of which required any tie at all, let alone a white one. They’d retired to the library afterward with the remainder of the wine from dinner and both lost themselves in books. Back in her room Edith flopped gracelessly down on the window seat. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the small garden, not that she could see the details of it. The autumnal sun had slipped below the London skyline a while ago. The light in her room against the inky darkness outside turned her windowpanes into mirrors. She met her own eyes in the glass and then looked away.

She looked tired.

She was tired.

Nigh five months since her failed wedding, she hadn’t slept properly since. And now Rosamund was trying to trot her out once again. There wasn’t enough powder in the world to cover the circles under her eyes.

She didn’t think back on her wedding often, only whenever she was left alone with her thoughts. Moments like this the fear and the doubt and the pain leached into her, gnawing away at her heart and her mind. Was the prospect of being married to her so ghastly? Why didn’t _He_ say something earlier if _he_ didn’t want her? That _he_ didn’t love her? Why did _he_ let her believe that _he_ did? She was a horrible person, she knew, but she’d thought that cosmic debt had been paid when _he_ ’d left the garden party, and then for the war, and she didn’t hear from _him_ again for years. It was in moments like this that she hated _him_. She hated _him_ more than she hated anyone – more than Mary, more than herself.

Moments like that never lasted long, however. For one, she could never truly hate _him_. It wasn’t _his_ fault, at least, not entirely. What choice had she left _him_? She had loved _him_ selfishly, for herself rather than _him_. In 1914 she’d loved _him_ because it felt like she was taking something from Mary, _he_ ’d been invited to court her after all. _His_ interest in her was something to be lorded over her older sister, the first time she’d had something like that. And then, of course, she’d loved _him_ for making her feel lovely, and intelligent, and worthy. She’d felt… sparkly, with _him_ , and loved _him_ for _that_. She’d loved _him_ for the fact _he_ could make her a wife.

During the war she’d realized her error, how she’d almost completely overlooked himself when she’d thought about _him._ She’d been so caught up in how _he_ made her feel she’d neglected the thousands of reasons to love _him_ that had nothing to do with her. There was _his_ strong, steady presence, _his_ voice, _his_ eyes, that boyish, lopsided grin of _his_. Then there was _his_ wit, _his_ wisdom, how terrifyingly brilliant _he_ was. The respect and knowledge _he_ had for traditions as well as _his_ willingness to try anything and everything new if _he_ thought that the change could help preserve everything _he_ held dear – the land, _his_ tenants and their lives and families, education, literature, the safety, security, and happiness of those in _his_ orbit. _He_ was so forward thinking and yet very much grounded as well. There was _his_ sense of adventure, of humor, of wonder… She’d vowed that if _he_ came back to her, she’d never take _him_ for granted again.

She’d failed almost immediately out of the gate. _He_ ’d reappeared back in her life and oh, she’d admired so much about _him_ – _his_ bravery, the cut of _his_ suit across _his_ broad shoulders, the sound of _his_ laughter – but she’d failed to show _him_ the breadth and depth of her feelings for _him_. _Him_ himself. She’d pushed too hard, too fast, wanting _wanting_ _wanting_ what she wanted. She’d pushed her way into _his_ life. She’d pushed _him_ into society again, pushed _him_ into her family and all of their drama. She’d pushed _him_ into a declaration, into an engagement and eventually all the way down the aisle.

Had she ever properly listened to _him_ during their engagement? Oh, sure, she’d sat back and enjoyed the glorious sound of _his_ voice, letting it wash over her after years of fearing that she’d never hear it again. And she’d mined _his_ conversation carefully for things to discuss, a place to make a witty rejoinder or drill down deeper in the analytics of their conversation. But had she actually listened to _him_ and what he’d been so clearly (in retrospect) been trying to tell her. What _he_ ’d been screaming behind those soft, intelligent words? No. She’d ignored them or worse waved them away as unimportant rather than actually engaging with the man she’d wanted to call her husband since she was twenty years old. It was unforgivable of her, as someone who wished to be _his_ wife, and it was unforgivable as someone who spent years tending to convalescing soldiers. She’d not gone into training like Sybil had, not anything that formal anyway. But Dr. Clarkson had given her thorough instructions on how to help the wounded men. She’d learned how to do basic dressing, how to bathe a man, how to treat a headache. She’d learned how to _listen_. Many of the men she met hadn’t wanted to discuss their experiences, but some had needed to – the nightmares, the fears they had wouldn’t always be cured after they spoke to her but the burdens they carried were always, always lessened when they shared them.

Old. Broken. Crippled. Burden. Useless. _He_ ’d used these and so many other watch words. If _he_ ’d been a stranger recuperating at Downton, she’d have flagged _him_ immediately for Dr. Clarkson to get him some counseling. _His_ arm was not the only thing that hadn’t fully healed, or at least not healed back the way it had been before. Did she counsel _him_? No. Had she stopped to just listen to _him_ , fully and truly engaged in listening to _him_? No. She’d waved everything _he_ said away as if it was unimportant, rather than _his_ deepest concerns and worries cautiously, slowly, being let out of the carefully locked box every Englishman kept their emotions in.

Of course, the few times she’d tried to tackle _his_ concerns head on, she’d said exactly the wrong things. When _he_ ’d told her, _he_ didn’t need a wife, _he_ needed a nurse, she’d insisted that she’d be happy to nurse _him_. She hadn’t assured _him_ that it wasn’t the case, that _he_ was perfectly capable still on _his_ own, with only a little modification and help. No, she’d taken _his_ assumptions about _himself_ and run with them, confirming everything _he_ thought true even though the state of reality plainly suggested otherwise. No wonder _he_ was convinced she was throwing herself away and that _he_ needed to sacrifice to stop her. She’d once told _him_ that he would be her life’s work. Her life’s work, like _he_ was a novel or a painting or a play. Like _he_ was a thing rather than a man - her equal and her partner. Not only had she seemingly accepted fully _his_ premise that _he_ was broken beyond repair she’d also quite successfully reduced _him_ to an object rather than a person. If only she’d thought before she spoke, if only she had listened.

Looking up at where the stars should be (if she could see them given the lights in her room across the city) Edith wished. She wished she could go back and start again. She wished she had done things differently the first time. That she had taken her time with _him_ showing how much she loved _him._ How much she loved _him_ for _him_ and nothing more, nothing less. Reminding _him_ of how capable he was, helping _him_ realize that _he_ could do everything _he_ thought _he_ couldn’t if they both just took their time and made adjustments along the way. That while _he_ might need some assistance from time to time, he wasn’t down for the count just yet. Certainly not in need of a nurse. She wished…

If. If. If. Wish. Wish. Wish.

She could hear her mother speaking, firmly but gently, in her head: _Darling, if wishes were horses beggars would ride_. Sadly, Edith rose from the window seat. It was early yet, compared to the hours her family kept while in London for the season, but she was bone tired, nonetheless. She hadn’t cried this time. It seemed like eventually a person truly could run out of tears, but the weary, ache in her heart and in her limbs was still there. Slowly she began getting ready for bed. She didn’t need a maid to help her change, when Edith decided to move to London to follow the opportunity journalism offered her, she had reevaluated her wardrobe. Fine gowns were necessary for impressing Peers, but what _The Sketch_ wanted from her wasn’t her breeding, but her opinion. Fripperies would just take away from what she had to offer. The three small buttons at the back of her neck were easy enough to undo, she could pull her own hair pins out. Dressed in a light nightgown and robe Edith brushed her hair out carefully, her eyes avoiding herself in the mirror before she turned off the lights and quietly slipped into her cold, lonely bed for the night.


	3. II. 20 October 1920 [Wednesday]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revolves around an (off screen) abortion and its aftermath. If you wish to skip over that, I’d suggest stopping around the asterisk (**). Relevant points will be summarized in the notes at the end of the chapter.

Opal Larson lived on Bread Street. When Edith had confirmed Wednesday as an ideal evening for dinner Opal had dashed off her address and telephone number on the back of an old receipt for carbon paper.

“Seven o’clock work?” She’d asked, waving the paper a bit before handing it over.

“Yes, perfectly. Shall I dress?” She knew the question was stupid the moment it crossed her lips. She didn’t need Opal’s uproarious laughter to tell her that.

“Oh yes, only the finest white tie for what will most likely wind up being toad in the hole with peas.” Opal regained her composure eventually, looking slightly contrite. “I don’t mean to tease, but it’ll be a miracle if Lori makes it home in time after work. We come as we are, and so should you.” That had never, ever been an option for her growing up – not to dinner nor anywhere else in Downton.

Edith smoothed her tweet skirt over her knees as her taxi rolled through Cheapside. Opal had said “come as you are” but Edith had still thought carefully about her outfit: A sensible plaid skirt in shades of browns and blues with a cream silk blouse and a belted cardigan in a lovely, rich shade of navy. She chided herself for feeling like she was auditioning for friends, but she wanted to pass muster more than she was willing to admit. And with the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow striking the hour her fashion would have to make up for her tardy arrival.

_When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey._ Edith thought to herself as she felt the sonorous sound of the great bell ring through her. _When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know, says the great bell of Bow._

She’d never been in this part of the city before, Both Grantham House and Aunt Rosamund’s home were in Belgravia. She felt like she was only slightly exaggerating when she said the farthest east she’d ever been in the city was the British Museum. And now she was on her way to Bread Street… In Cheapside. She could just imagine how Mary would say it. She always imagined Miss Caroline Bingley’s lines in Mary’s voice (and Lady Catherine resembled Granny and no interpretation would ever take that image from her).

_“Did you know?”_ She could hear _His_ voice in her head, soft and gentle, and excited to share with her some bit of interesting knowledge. _“That Cheapside’s name has nothing to do with cost? It’s derived from the Saxon word for market._ ” She’d not intended to recreate Jane’s trip to Netherfield when she’d set out on Juniper, her beloved Bay Morgan, but the skies had opened right as she approached the Locksley property line. She’d appeared at the stable resembling more a drowned rat than a fiancée. Mrs. Rivers had bundled her in blankets with a Bovril tea and resting beside the fire in the library before she’d even said ‘hello’. Neither she, nor Mr. Hill, nor _Him_ would hear one word of her leaving until the rain had fully stopped and she was dry once again. Not that she had complained. They’d spent a pleasant afternoon, she browsed his copy of _Pride and Prejudice,_ occasionally reading him sections aloud as he finished some correspondence. It was this performance that had started the conversation about Cheapside which turned into a conversation about Saxon London which turned into a conversation about St. Mary-le-Bow which had ended with _Him_ replicating accents so perfectly that if she closed her eyes it was like someone else was there speaking with her (and when she opened her eyes to see _him_ sitting in one of his lovely tweed ‘gentleman of the country’ suits, familiar blue eyes dancing as his thin lips parted and someone else’s voice fell out and she couldn’t do anything but laugh – laugh until she couldn’t breath and her cheeks _hurt_ from the smile bursting out of her).

Edith was pulled from her bittersweet memories by the juttering STOP of the taxi throwing her forward in the seat, the driver using several new and creative expletives as he stamped on the break. And then her door was being thrown open and someone unceremoniously tossed in her lap.

“Get ‘er to da hospital.” A hoarse voice told the cabby. And then he was gone, leaving the someone – a young woman – in Edith’s bewildered lap. Later, Edith would quietly applaud herself for thinking quickly enough to get a look out the window. There were two men, the one who had deposited the woman in her lap (she could tell by the distinctive burn across his hand and the cropped middle and index finger) and another. The other man was tall, looking supremely displeased. He had a well-groomed mustache, dark hair, and was dressed extremely well, especially when contrasted with his shabbier, clearly working-class companion. He took the other man’s arm in a vice like grip and began dragging him away, saying something she couldn’t understand. A signet ring glittered on his left pinky; the shape distinct even if the crest was not.

With the men’s back to her, Edith returned her attention to the woman, who was unmoving in her lap. The girl was young looking, wearing a navy-blue coat with a fresh daisy pinned to the lapel. Her hair was in distinctive rose gold ringlets around her pale, sickly face. Edith knew that if she opened her eyes, they would be the color of ice water.

“Alice?! Alice wake up!” Alice Waters was the undersecretary of the formidable Mrs. Weaver who was responsible for overseeing _The Sketch_ ’s art department. She’d just graduated secretarial school and started at _The Sketch_ the same time Edith had joined as a columnist. She’d thought the girl was nice, an odd mix of fashionably independent and youthful insecurity with an air of trying her absolute hardest at all times. Her hair was always styled in the most up to date ways, she smoked chic little cigarettes and called everyone ‘Darling’, at the same time her pale blue eyes seemed forever casting about like she was checking to see if she was doing ‘it’ right.

****** “What the bloody f-” The cabbie turned around in his seat and then clamped his jaw shut “Sorry, miss.”

“Never mind that, get me to the nearest women’s hospital FAST.” There was a growing blood stain on Alice’s usually pristine skirt. It was in a place only one sort of injury could cause. “NOW!” The driver whipped around in his seat and set off once again, his pace not as quick as Edith would have liked, but probably as fast as he could possibly go considering the bustling streets around them.

“Alice, wake up. I need you to open your eyes and look at me.” While Downton had been a convalescent home, she had learned a bit of nursing. Nothing like Sybil’s full course, but some basics that made her invaluably helpful to both the staff and the servicemen. However, nothing in that training, could help her now. Servicemen had had many different problems, but never this. Alice’s long lashes fluttered, and Edith wanted to crow with victory. She was certainly still alive.

“That’s it, look at me. We’re going to the hospital now and I need you to stay with me, okay?”

(Later, Edith would look at a map of London and realize that the trip from around Bread Street to the women’s clinic should have taken maybe twenty minutes, the cabbie had gotten them there in just shy of twelve).

**#**

The MacMillan Women’s Hospital was a squat building on the corner, it was made of thick, grey walls and sadness. Edith, admittedly, had not been to many hospitals in her life, but looking at the bleak façade with not enough windows she was fairly certain it was less a hospital and more an institution masquerading as a place to restore one’s health. It was perhaps the most depressing building she’d ever seen, and if it wasn’t for Alice she’d want to run as far as possible in the opposite direction. But there was poor Alice, she’d managed to open her eyes on the drive over, but not for long. She was completely dead weight by the time they had arrived at the hospital. The very nice, extremely bewildered cabbie had to carry her into the lobby.

Somewhere in the swarm of people that had engulfed them the moment the staff realized they were in need of assistance the cabbie had departed with his fare and a generous tip, leaving her alone and utterly out of her depth.

“Miss, are you bleeding?” A profoundly local accent shook her from her spiraling thoughts. The nurse standing before her was probably a full four inches taller than Edith herself and wearing a look of deepest concern.

“It’s not mine.” She could feel tears welling, her throat closing around those words. “You have to help-”

“We’ll take good care of your friend, now let’s get you cleaned up.” The nurse placed a kind hand on her arm, giving it a comforting squeeze before gently steering her towards a door down the hall labeled ‘WC’.

Inside the lavatory Edith washed her hands and sobbed herself dry. She’d not cried with such impotent fear and worry since the early months of the war. She hadn’t known Alice well, but she was someone and some animal had done _that_ to her. Looked her in the eyes and _butchered_ her.

There was blood on her skirt. It was the first full thought she had since she’d wrung herself out over the sink. There was Alice’s blood on her skirt, and she doubted anyone would be able to get it out. Even if they did, she’d never be able to wear it again without thinking of this wretched moment. Suddenly she was furious. Boiling hot with angry. Someone had ruined her favorite fall skirt and quite possibly _killed_ Alice. She would not allow such violence to go unpunished. Such violence and then such careless disregard – they had just tossed her in the back of the cab like she was a sack of flour. Not a person at all, just a thing, a problem for someone else to deal with.

Edith Crawley was incandescent with rage by the time she reached the hospital’s front desk. The woman at reception actually backed slightly away from her.

“I need to make a phone call…please.” She spat between clenched teeth, all the airs and graces that had been hammered into her head since birth utterly forgotten.

“Hello, operator, get me the police.”

**#**

Reporting the assault on Alice didn’t make her anger go away, but it did allow her to start thinking again. Her vision was no longer a tight tunnel and the memories of Alice’s pale, sickly visage faded slightly. She could think past the blood falling out from between her legs. Edith was able to remember that she was expected somewhere, for instance. The rage and authority she’d demonstrated the first time meant that when she appeared at the desk a second time, the receptionist wordlessly slid the phone to her.

“ _Hello?_ ” Opal’s voice on the other end of the line sounded worried.

“Opal, it’s Edith Crawley.”

“ _OH! Thank God!_ ” A wave of relief rushed through the telephone wire and enveloped her like a hug. “You were late and then Lori call to tell me she would have to stay longer because of an emergency, and I began to fear the worst.” Lori, Edith knew, was Opal’s flat mate and a nurse… at the women’s clinic. “ _Where are you?_”

“I’m at the clinic.”

“ _What_?!” Opal yelped.

“I’m fine.” She was quick to assure her friend. “I was almost to your flat when someone just threw this body into my taxi. It was Alice, Opal, she was in a bad way.”

“ _Alice? Alice Waters? Our Alice?_ ”

“Yes!”

“ _Oh God_.” Edith could hear her speaking through her fingers, hand covering her mouth in shock. Edith certainly felt queasy saying it aloud.

“I’m going to stay with her.” She promised. “I’m sorry about dinner.”

“ _Don’t be. Alice needs you. I’ll put your edits on your desk tomorrow and we’ll get together another time._ ” Edith rang off just in time to catch the same slender nurse from before.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where they’ve taken my friend?” The nurse gave her a sympathetic not-quite-smile.

“The doctor is still with her, but you can wait for her in our lounge.” She began ushering her down a long, oppressively white hallway. “Someone will come and find you when she’s out of theatre.”

“Thank you. The police will be here soon, I’m expecting them.” The woman stopped dead.

“You called the police?” She asked in stunned disbelief.

“Of course!” The nurse turned to look at her, lowering her voice to an emphatic whisper.

“You do realize your friend’s injuries are consistent with an abortion.” Edith had not. Not really. Her only thought at the time had been to get Alice help. Not actually process what was happening. However, now that it was pointed out to her of course it made sense. That much blood _there_.

“She could die! Someone butchered her!-”

“She could get 10-15 years in prison for procuring an abortion!” the nurse hissed. Edith rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“I had to do something. They might have killed her.” She whispered. The nurse studied her for a long moment, her grey eyes hard.

“Even if your friend gets out of theatre now, she’d be in no fit state to talk to anyone, least of all a detective. She is under no circumstances to be disturbed.” The nurse spoke slowly and firmly, her eyes boring into Edith’s.

“Of – of course.”

“Don’t say the word ‘abortion’ or termination’ or anything like that. Don’t try and diagnose her at all in fact.” Good Lord she was coaching her on what to say to the police. And apparently rule one, don’t let any officer look at Alice, rule two, don’t in any way insinuate what was the (likely) cause of her distress.

“I’m going to tell them the truth,” Edith stood up tall and squared her shoulders. “I was in a taxi and two men _threw_ her into my lap. She was barely responsive and covered in blood, so I came here and called the police since she’d obviously been assaulted.” The nurse (her name tag Edith could now see read D. Stanton) studied her for another long moment and then sighed heavily.

“Stick to those facts and this might turn out okay.” Edith nodded and slipped into the lounge, which was mercifully empty. Heavily she sat in one of the low chairs and put her face in her hands. An abortion. Edith hadn’t known Alice well; they had worked in different departments on separate floors. She’d had absolutely no idea something like this had been going on in the young woman’s life. Had some cad left her the moment the going got rough? Had someone assaulted her, and she didn’t want to carry her rapist’s child? Surely, she was not so desperately poor that she couldn’t afford a child, surely _The Sketch_ paid everyone well. Did she not have anyone to turn to? What had happened to lead her here – desperate, alone, and bleeding to death in a taxi? Sorrow swept through her and Edith felt nauseous.

“Hello?” She raised her head, standing in the doorway was the police (the constable was a dead giveaway). “Lady Edith Crawley?” The man standing beside the young constable, dressed in a grey suit studied her as he spoke. She stood, absently wondering how long she had been left to her thoughts.

“I’m Lady Edith.” She offered her hand first to the man in the suit, then the uniformed constable.

“I’m Detective David Fox and this is Constable Flowers.” His cheekbones were sharp, but his jawline was sharper still. He was at most thirty and objectively handsome with his deep voice and kind brown eyes. Beside him Constable Flowers looked so young, she marveled that Scotland Yard hired children. He was tall, taller than Detective Fox, but not half as muscular. In fact, by the look of it the constable was still growing, he was all long and lank and knobby. Standing together they made a very odd team.

“You called to report an ‘assault’?” Fox sounded mildly skeptical. Edith could feel herself starting to sweat… he knew.

“Yes,” She said with a confidence she did not feel. She didn’t know Alice had an abortion, not for certain, she just knew something awful had happened. Surely it was okay, she hadn’t just inadvertently sentenced the young woman to a decade in prison. Doing her best impersonation of Violet Crawley, Edith stood a little taller and offered Detective Fox a seat in one of the hospital chairs. Being imperious was a great way to keep people at arm’s length and control the conversation, she’d watch Granny use the tactic her entire life and the Dowager managed to control Downton Abbey, despite no longer being its mistress. Fox took the offered seat, Constable Flowers, however, remained standing, his pencil and notebook at the ready.

The Detective’s face was impressively impassive as she told him everything she knew. Alice Waters had been thrust into her cab somewhere near Bread Street, just after seven. Alice had been pale and barely conscious and had been bleeding quite badly. (Fox had cast a dark, cynical eye over her ruined skirt). Edith had immediately brought her to the hospital and called the police. Two men had brought Alice to the cab, the one who had opened the door to put Alice in had been wearing a flat cap, some sort of collared shirt in a rough brown flannel. He was missing the tops of his middle and ring finger on his burned hand and he spoke with a hoarse voice, like his throat had been damaged. The other man had stayed back from the cab, he’d been tall – taller than his companion. He’d had dark hair and an impressive mustache, like how she imagined Hercule Poirot’s looked in _the Mysterious Affair at Styles_. He’d been impeccably dressed as well, dark double-breasted suit, and had a signet ring on his left little finger.

She’d thought she’d done a good job reporting the facts in as much detail as she could, but Detective Fox was apparently unimpressed. He followed up on everything, from where she’d hired the cab in the first place to how she knew it was seven o’clock, how much of the two fingers had been missing, to what specific regional accent did the hoarse man have and what did she mean that she could tell it was a signet ring but couldn’t see the crest on it?

“I’d like to show you some photographs, Lady Edith, please look at them carefully and tell me if you recognize any of the people in them.” From the inside pocket of his jacket the Detective pulled a stack of stiff cards. He carefully handed them to her, his face still as impassive as ever. Each card was about 4x6” and had two square photographs pasted to one side. On the left of each card a man stared out from the black and white picture, on the right the same man stood in profile looking off to the right. Carefully she shuffled through the cards once, trying to come to grips with what she was looking at rather than actually examining any of the pictures. These were mugshots of criminals. One of these men might be the one who had done that to poor Alice. What if the man she saw wasn’t in the pile, then what? What if he was and she couldn’t identify him! Then they’d never catch him because she’d have said he wasn’t there. What if she recognized someone else, not from Bread Street but from some other aspect of her life, wouldn’t that be awkward? She needed to focus.

_Focus!_

She looked through the photos a second time, this time doing her utmost to actually study each face in turn. Some of the men looked downright sinister. Unfamiliar, but also clearly up to no good. Others looked perfectly respectable and also unfamiliar. And then…

“This is him.” She’d recognize the mustache anywhere. But beyond that the man in the photo had the same dark hair, receding high at the temples, the same displeased, unpleasant expression. She could even see the peaked lapels of his jacket in the photo, much the same cut as he’d been wearing today. Detective Fox took the photo from her and studied first it and then her.

“You’re certain?” She’d thought his eyes kind when they first met, but they had now pinned her like a bug under a collector’s glass.

“Yes.” She was as certain as she could be, although with each passing second, he made her doubt herself. Fox lowered his gaze and handed the photograph card to Constable Flowers.

“Butcher George, sir?” Flowers asked, glancing at the photo. His face was not nearly as schooled as his superior’s.

“It looks like.” Fox sighed and stood; it was the first expression of emotion he’d made the entire interview.

“I’m sorry, but who is Butcher George?” Edith stood as well. They knew who this _bastard_ was?! Why wasn’t he locked up already, with a moniker like that? The Detective turned back to her, his broad hand tucking the photo cards back in his pocket.

“George Whitten was, once upon a time, a doctor, believe it or not. He lost his license three years ago and has since set up shop as an abortionist.” Edith felt herself blanche. She’d tried to be as careful as possible and yet still managed to get Alice into trouble.

“Who said anything about Alice having an abortion?” Her voice was high and tight. Fox gave her an unreadable look. In the one light he looked amused, another confused, perhaps a bit sympathetic if she squinted, and overall exasperated.

“No one, m’lady.” His tone wasn’t any better.

“Well, if you know so much about the _butcher_ why haven’t you bloody well caught him by now?” When put on the back foot, the best course of action was distraction – typically by charging off, in a great huff, in a slightly different direction. Disorientate your opponent until you have the moral high ground once again. Life lesson 224 from Violet Crawley.

“Even if you brought him to me wrapped up in a bow, I would not be able to arrest him.” Fox snapped. Annoyed, that tone was clearly annoyed.

“What? Why ever not?!” If procuring an abortion was a crime punishable with 10-15 years jail time for the woman, surely _providing_ such a service was also a crime of the highest order.

“Evidence, Lady Edith. You must be aware that to be arrested for a crime in this country one must bring charges based on evidence.” _Oh, how_ very _droll._

“And you know so much about the man from pure speculation then?” She crossed her arms and channeled her Granny further by raising a challenging eyebrow.

“Actually, yes.” The Detective mirrored her. “We’ve found six young women dead in the past year, we have circumstantial evidence that points to Witten, he’d lost his license over his ‘interest’ in women’s gynecology, after all. But not nearly enough to convict. We couldn’t possibly talk to any of his living victims considering bringing charges against him is to admit to procuring an abortion.”

“Women are dying,” She didn’t know why she was surprised; Alice had very nearly died in her lap today. If she’d not been there in a cab, there was a strong possibility those men would have just left her in the street. “And you’re doing _nothing_ about it?!” The Detective’s nostrils flared, and she could practically hear his teeth grinding together but he said nothing.

“Now wait just a minute!” His constable, on the other hand, was only silenced by a _withering_ look from his superior officer.

“ _Lady_ Edith, you might be accustomed to the world bending to your will, but unfortunately _I cannot change the laws just to suit you_. No evidence, no case, no arrest.” The admonishment was clear, He’d had quite enough of the aristocracy and their attempts to live above the law. She could understand the frustration. While her father had never done anything illegal, he and Granny, Mary, and to a lesser extent Mama always expected …more because of who they were. More respect, more dignity, more leeway in behavior than another person might get away with. Certainly, more than say Anna or Mrs. Hughes or poor Daisy would ever be allowed. She hadn’t always appreciated Branson’s politics, but now she could clearly see that Tom had a point. There was no equality under the law and unless she acknowledged this privilege, she’d keep perpetuating it.

“I’m not asking you to change the laws.” She heard herself snap back. She could feel an idea making its way up her spine from her spleen. All that impotent rage she’d been feeling earlier had finally crystalized into actual, actionable thoughts and ambitions. “I’m going to get you the evidence you need to convict him.”

“What?!” The young constable sounded remarkably like a cat who’d just had its tail trod on. The Detective subtle loathing had exploded into shocked annoyance. He was not an overly demonstrative man, but his eyes and the set of his jaw were as easily read as the expressive face of his flailing constable.

“Now wait just a minute!” Fox growled. “You will do no such thing. This isn’t _a novel_ , Lady Edith, civilians are not allowed to play detective. Even the aristocrats.” He paused. “ _Especially_ aristocrats.” Edith crossed her arms, she wasn’t playing at anything, she just didn’t entirely have a plan yet for how she was going to get the evidence necessary for conviction… She wouldn’t let him know that, however, even though she knew she never had the face for cards. For a long moment they stood, glaring at one another, trying to see who would break first from their standoff.

Detective Fox eventually did, but in his defense, Constable Flowers had cleared his throat in that oh so British way that meant he needed their attention. Fox slowly lowered his eyes from hers to look at his Constable, who in turn, nodded toward the door, his finger tapping at his wristwatch. Fox nodded and turned back to her; his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscles bunching clearly under his tanned skin.

“I’m serious.” He informed her gruffly before taking his leave more politely, along with his constable. Soon she was alone in the waiting room. But not for long.

“Lady Edith?” Nurse Stanton entered the waiting room so quietly she’d not heard her. “Alice is on the ward if you’d like to see her. She’s awake but very, very drowsy.”

“Thank you.” She and Alice had not been friends, but in that moment, there was no one Edith wanted to see more.

“How did it go with the police?” Over her shoulder the nurse shot her a very critical look.

“Frustrating.” Was the honest answer. It was not, however, enough to turn Stanton’s critical eye from her. “They will not be pursuing Alice for procuring an abortion. In fact, they won’t be pursuing anything about this case at all, despite my positive identification of the man who did this to her. Despite the fact that they are well aware of him and his illegal dealings, the police will not be pursuing this.” Nurse Stanton stopped in the middle of the hall and turned around fully.

“What?”

“I said nothing about Alice’s suspected abortion.” God, the nurse’s eyes were most unnerving. They were worse than Granny’s perceptive gaze, Edith felt like it was literally impossible to lie to the woman. Like she could see the truth in her already and if Edith didn’t say it, she’d _make_ her say it. “But when I described the men who put her in the taxi Detective Fox recognized one of them as George Whitten,” The name was apparently not unknown to the nurse, who looked like she wanted to spit on the sterile ground at his mention. “He’s known as Butcher George and the police are confident that Alice is not his first victim, however they will not – they cannot – arrest him because women refuse to bring charges against him and admit their abortion and the women who have died after the procedure have not yielded enough concrete evidence to tie their deaths back to him.”

“Not yielded? More like they haven’t been arsed to look hard enough at their deaths _to find any_ evidence.” Stanton complained under her breath. Edith hated to agree, but she felt the nurse was probably right.

“Despite my identification of Witten, I don’t think the police will be after Alice for an abortion. Detective Fox made it quite clear that they need solid evidence to bring a case and as you said, Alice’s injuries only _appear_ to _maybe_ have been caused by a termination.” It was not the most solid foundation for hope, but Edith was willing to stand on it. Optimism did not come naturally to her, but in times like this it was about all she had. Nurse Stanton looked about as optimistic as she felt, but the other woman said nothing. She just nodded and turned back down the hall.

“You said her name was Alice, Alice Waters?” The nurse said quietly as they entered the large ward at the end of the hall. Beds were neatly lined up against the walls, thin curtains on either side giving the barest air of privacy.

“Yes.”

“She’s too weak to answer any of our questions, seeing as you’re her friend, the doctor will want to talk to you – to try and fill in anything you can for us.” Edith paused, stopping in the middle of the clinically white room.

“I wouldn’t say I knew her well, we both work together at _The Sketch_ , but not in the same department, or even the same floor. I don’t think I can be of much help to the doctors.”

“You work at _The Sketch_? Your last name is Crawley, isn’t it?” Nurse Stanton paused as well, and for the first time since Edith arrived at the hospital she appeared to be actually smiling.

“Yes, I’m Edith Crawley, I write for Mr. Gregson.”

“You know my flat mate, Opal Larson. You were supposed to be coming over for dinner tonight! I’m Lori Stanton.” The Nurse extended her hand as she gave her an appraising look, very different from the previous ones. Edith did her best to give a firm handshake and not shrink back under the new scrutiny. “Opal didn’t tell me you were a _Lady_ , she only said that you had an affinity for run on sentences and commas.” Edith had to laugh at that. Opal was correct in her assessment, and how like her to leave off her title when talking to her flat mate. It would have infuriated Papa and Mary, but Edith found she rather liked it. She’d prefer to be known as a flagrant abuser of the comma than as the daughter of a peer. Being plain Edith meant she could know that any friend she made was with her for herself (grammatical failings and all) rather than her title and position.

“I don’t much use my title in the office,” She’d originally wanted to publish her pieces as E. Crawley or perhaps E.V. Crawley, but Mr. Gregson wouldn’t hear of it. “although Mr. Gregson insists that I publish under it. I think he hopes it will bring _The Sketch_ some prestige, having an Earl’s daughter as a featured columnist.”

“That sounds like Gregson.” Lori rolled her eyes. She and Opal must be friends, to be flat mates, so Edith supposed that in a way Lori knew Gregson as well, if not better, than she did.

Impromptu introductions over Lori finally brought Edith to Alice’s bedside. The young woman was still pale but looked more alive than she had in the cab. Her ice blue eyes were still closed, but Edith didn’t feel her heart rend. Alice was finally resting. She was finally in a place where she could, where she could recover.

**#**

The meeting with Alice’s doctors didn’t take very long, Edith had been correct, she couldn’t answer any of the questions the physicians had asked. Lori had suggested she go home after the awkward interview. Edith wasn’t family and couldn’t do much beyond give herself a sore neck sitting all night in a chair by Alice’s bed. And so, reluctantly, she allowed the now friendlier nurse to call her a cab and returned to Belgravia and Bond House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Alice Waters, a secretary at the Sketch is dumped in Edith’s lap (literally) after receiving a botched abortion. Edith takes her to the hospital and calls the police to report the near murder of her friend. The police arrive but Lori Stanton, Opal Lawson’s roommate and a nurse, warns Edith that procuring an abortion is a crime punishable with 10-15 years in prison. David Fox, the police detective responding to Edith’s call arrives to take her statement and informs her that without concrete evidence or Alice wishing to press charges he cannot arrest the man responsible for her injuries. Edith manages to get on Fox’s bad side by announcing that she will bring “Butcher George” to justice


	4. III. 22 October 1920 [Friday]

The first page of her article alone looked as if it had been in a nasty accident, ink as red as blood was shot through every line. Opal had not been exaggerating when she had said she was a tough critic. Edith flipped through the pages, vainly hoping there would be a tapper off in corrections. And there was, a quarter of the way down the third page: the red ink ran out. It was quickly replaced by navy blue ink and a looping note. _Ran out of ink, this is a new pen._ In addition to calling out her abuse of the comma and her habit of run-on sentences Opal had easily identified what had been vexing Edith for the last week. Her argument was interesting, but only half-grounded.

_Support this or chuck it._ Opal’s round cursive told her authoritatively, one of the article’s central claims underline precisely. It was an interesting point but flapping in the wind without any support. Like a loose thread in a cuff it distracted the rest of the essay. It was never addressed and tucked away, so there it stayed, niggling. She didn’t have the time or space to research and expand the section. She’d have to clip it. Perhaps her next article she could spin the point out more…

With a put-upon sigh Edith sat down at her desk and pulled her typewriter in position to begin revising retyping her essay. She’d asked for this, but it was still disheartening to see all of her foibles laid out in scarlet ink. Every columnist for _The Sketch_ had their own desk, outfitted with a typewriter and brass plate with their name. Edith had seen fit to bring a bit more personality to her small space, a picture of her family, old – from before the war, sat beside a potted plant. Mary had thought herself so _very_ funny giving her a snake plant for her birthday. Well the joke was on her, Edith found she rather liked the plant, with its tall, sharp, deep green leaves.[1]

_The Sketch_ ’s office was open, aside from the editor’s office, which was centered against the north wall, creating a U-shaped space. There were stairs to the art department along the east wall, the main doors to the office along the west. The columnists’ and secretaries’ desks were arranged in neat rows in the remaining open space like squares on a gameboard. Edith would have hated to work amongst so many people if the office was ever full. However, as long as columns were submitted on time and met standards Gregson did not require contributors to work in the office. Pieces could be submitted from anywhere. This meant that at most the office was ever 2/3 full. On Fridays, or days with particularly good weather it was even more empty.

Currently it was both, and Edith was the only person in her row. So she thought, a shadow fell across her desk.

“Lady Edith,” The shadow addressed her, making her jump, her fingers slamming on the keys, jamming them. With almost everyone out of the office she had hoped to spend some serious time on her revisions.

“Mr. Gregson,” The interruption was annoying, but the man was her boss.

“What have I said about calling me ‘Mr. Gregson’?” he tutted, a smile playing across his features. Michael Gregson was a handsome man, but she found his charms derivative. _He_ would always be her definitive and if she couldn’t have the original, she wasn’t particularly interested in _his_ lookalike.

“I believe it was in the same vein as my requests regarding my title.”

“Edith.” He chuckled.

“Michael.” She gave him a polite smile. It wasn’t his fault he reminded her of _him._

“Much better.” He hiked up his trouser leg slightly and seated himself on the edge of her desk, mindful of her plant. “I do realize this is short notice, but one of my publisher friends is throwing a bit of a get together this evening.” He fixed her with an appraising look and then a subtle, approving nod. “He’s been reading your column since you started. He’d very much like to meet you in person I’ve promised to bring you along tonight. Won’t you come? I’d hate to be made a liar.” It was extremely short notice. Not that she and Rosamund had had plans for the evening, but begging off now would certainly put Mrs. Sands, the cook, out. Plus, she’d have to try and figure out something to wear, take time to prepare, and she had hoped to get some work done on the article…

“That’s extremely flattering,” And it was. She still couldn’t believe that people enjoyed her articles, compliments were so foreign, she wasn’t entirely convinced that the people giving them weren’t having some sort of jape at her expense. “Who is your friend?” If she was going to inconvenience her Aunt and the household having some sort of information beyond ‘a party with my editor’ would be prudent. Perhaps Rosamund would recognize the name of their host, it was always easier to accept the idiosyncrasies of people with reputation and breeding, (Lord knew her family relied on that fact to gloss over their own faults time and again). Gregson shifted a little on her desk, absently picking up first her paperweight (a blown glass bird in stunning blue green, an insightful gift from Sybil years ago) and then the photo of her family. He gave her another smile,

“I’m told he’s invited Virginia Woolf to this little soiree. Weren’t you just waxing poetic about her last week?” Edith could feel herself sitting forward in her chair, the article momentarily forgotten. Virginia Woolf. Edith had returned to her “The Mark on the Wall” so many times since she’d first read it, like it was an old, if slightly odd friend. There were times she just needed stream of consciousness prose and introspection.

“Really?”

“I thought that might get your attention.” Gregson chuckled. “It’s a very bohemian set, Mrs. Woolf and my friend. The gathering officially starts at eight, although it never gets interesting until at least ten.” He gave her a wink and she could infer what he meant by ‘interesting’. It intrigued and frightened her, the prospect of ‘interesting’.

_You deserve to live, my dearest darling._ _He_ ’d said so many things when he’d jilted her (and before, if she was honest with herself). Above all _he_ begged her to find someone young, whole, and interesting. _He_ had wanted her to experience life rather than “tie herself down” with him. A party with Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury set certainly qualified as ‘living’, she was certain.

“I was thinking you could come to my flat before and we’d walk over together, it’s not very far.” Michael had been speaking the entire time, she realized, slightly ashamed of the way her mind had wandered. Her mother would have a fit if she knew how inattentive she was being.

“Your flat?”

“Indeed, I have a place in Bloomsbury, we could have a bite to eat before we walk to the party. If I know anything it’s that there will be enough gin to wash away the sins of the masses but not a bite to eat, except for perhaps the olives in the martinis. If you came at say, seven, we could have something light before making our way over, fashionably late, of course.” There was something in his smile that was a little twisted. Edith however was slightly distracted and unable to put her finger on exactly how. Dinner with her male editor at his flat. That was … scandalous. On the other hand, it was business, they would be attending a literary party. Virginia Woolf would be there, people in the publishing business. She was a writer herself now, Michael an editor – her editor. She knew that Uncle Marmaduke had conducted business over dinners and cards and the pool table on occasion, even Papa, to a lesser extent did his business in smoke filled rooms. It was 1920, she was a modern woman, she had business of her own to conduct.

Bloomsbury had cafes and bistros; she was certain. Perhaps she could convince Michael to have dinner out rather than in his flat. Some place public. Granny would still be appalled by her behavior, but Granny also thought she was exhibiting herself most shamefully publishing her opinions in the paper. She was a modern woman, a writer now, she had business concerns. Dinner at a bistro and then a literary party sounded like the perfect way to embrace her status as a woman of this new age while still playing it safe.

The excitement in Michael’s face when she accepted his offer was almost contagious.

Edith checked the slip Michael had written his address on one final time. The building in front of her was indeed the address, somewhere on the fifth floor was his apartment. She adjusted her gown slightly, smoothing the skirt of imaginary wrinkles and she once again went over her plan. 1. Go up to Michael’s flat, 2. Suggest dinner at a nearby bistro (She’d made a few discreet inquiries after Gregson had given her his address and there were several places to have dinner within a few block’s walk) 3. Go to dinner at said bistro 4. Attend party, meet Virginia Woolf, et al. 5. Be home slightly later than a reasonable hour. Very simple and straightforward.

Gregson’s flat was on the fifth floor of the building, and Edith pulled her velvet duster a bit firmer around her shoulders as she ascended the seemingly never-ending staircase. For being the typical supper hour there were men all over the stairs, including several uniformed officers. Either her editor lived in the safest building in London, or something terrible had happened. Curiosity put a bit more pep in her step and Edith stopped dithering about her outfit’s suitability.

Michael Gregson had some of the worst handwriting she’d ever had the misfortune of trying to decipher. And she said that as someone who had spent her time helping soldiers re-learn to write as they convalesced at Downton after the war had taken part of their fingers or all of their dominate arm. His alleged 5s, in particular, looked like 3s. And as she stood in front of flat 5A, the door half open she was almost convinced that she was mistaken, and his flat was two floors down. Except he’d repeated his address for her several times, and she’d repeated it back to him (several times). Flat 5A.

He’d said that Bloomsbury was a bohemian place, but Edith was fairly certain even the most avant-garde bohemian answered their own door when expecting company. However, she could see movement from inside the flat, and Michael had said _Just come on up when you arrive._ At the time she had assumed he meant walking up to the flat, rather than waiting for a door man or butler to announce her. (He seemed to think she was incapable of functioning in society if it wasn’t _exactly_ like the grandeur of Downton. The fact she knew how to drive and make tea and dress herself in the mornings even seemed completely anathema… and more than a little patronizing.)

Carefully Edith opened the door and stepped into the foyer.

“Michael?” Her eyes briefly took in the room, passively registering the grey and silver demask wallpaper and white lacquered wainscoting contrasting it. She was vaguely aware that there were figures at the other end of the long gallery, however her attention was quickly drawn to the highly polished dark walnut floor where Michael Gregson was lying, unmoving on his side, a puddle of sick arching out before him.

“MICHAEL!” She rushed forward, flinging her clutch aside so that she might reach him. (It made a crashing sound that she didn’t even register). She cursed herself for not joining Sybil in taking a nursing course during the war. At the time she hadn’t wanted to appear a copycat, nor did she want to put up the fight with her parents. But now she wished she had more knowledge than how to locate a pulse and call an ambulance. She knelt beside him, her evening shoes sliding around in the … she didn’t want to think about on the floor as she turned him to his back so she could access his neck easier. He wasn’t dressed for dinner, thankfully, missing his tie -locating his carotid pulse would be easier. Except it wasn’t. She couldn’t feel anything except for cold, cold skin. His eyes were half open, fixed and unblinking.

“Michael!?” She slapped him across the face, vainly hoping it would bring him around although deep in her gut she knew he was gone.

He was _so_ pale.

Suddenly there were two broad, _strong_ hands under her arms leveraging her up and away from Gregson’s prone form.

“LADY EDITH!” It was a familiar voice, but she couldn’t place it. Just as she couldn’t quite place her feet beneath her, at least not on anything stable. Her shoes slid in the sick and blood around the body and just as soon as she was upright, she was over balanced. Her feet flew out from underneath her and she toppled backward, landing unceremoniously (and quite heavily) on her rear end. She managed to kick Michael’s corpse squarely in the face as she flailed and one of her elbows successfully collided with the man who’d attempted to haul her away’s groin. He was howling in her ear as she looked up, utterly mortified, into the thunderous face of Detective David Fox. 

“What are you doing here?” He growled at her as she slowly managed to pick herself up off the floor. Looking behind her she found that Constable Flowers had broken her fall. The poor boy was still curled in on himself, whimpering.

“I was invited. Mr. Gregson and I were going to go to a party this evening-” Edith found herself cut off by a scuffle beside her. At the end of the hallway two officers had lunged forward to catch a fine-boned woman who had fallen into a swoon.

“Mrs. Gregson, are you alright?” Detective Fox took a few hurried steps to her side as the officers who’d caught her gently lowered her to sit on the ground.

Mrs. Gregson. Edith felt sick. _He was married?!_ She’d had no idea. All those lunches out, all the times she’d accepted his flirting, all the times she’d flirted a bit in return (happy to be wanted, even if she wasn’t interested in him _like that_ ), accepting his invitation to a party and dinner… He’d been married. She’d had had no idea. The way she’d behaved… the way he’d behaved! Michael’s wife was a delicate looking woman with a cleft in her strong chin, but otherwise the features of a porcelain doll. She looked absolutely shattered sitting in her foyer, the dead body of her husband splayed out before her.

“I… I thought -No!” She shook her golden head. “No, I’m not alright.” She certainly did not look alright. She was as pale looking as Gregson, her skin shining with sweat. “Michael and I we were happy! I never thought he’d take a _mistress_ ,” Mrs. Gregson’s eyes were suddenly fixed on her, pinning her in place like she was a moth in a collection. She had startling green eyes, Mrs. Gregson, and they were absolutely furious. “And to bring her into our home…” Those hellfire emeralds that were her eyes filled with tears and she dissolved once again. Edith couldn’t breathe.

“ME?!” Mrs. Gregson thought _she_ was Michael’s mistress?! Good Lord. She felt like she was going to be sick… Detective Fox was towing her by the wrist from the room. They did not stop until they were in what she supposed was the living room (It was painted a lovely shade of peacock blue, which brought out the rug beautifully, she noted despite herself), with a door closed firmly behind them. Fox’s mouth was set in a line as then and sharp as a knife. She could see the way the muscles bunched in his jaw; he was very clearly physically holding back his words as he paced before her. Finally, he threw his hands up, his thoughts bursting forth:

“Just _what_ are you doing here Lady Edith?”

“I was invited to a party by Mr. Gregson, he’s my editor at _the Sketch_. He suggested we meet here before making our way over.” It took all of her focus to answer the Detective succinctly and without giving into the tempest of her emotions. Her first attempt at “living” had her standing over the dead body of her editor and being accused of being his mistress by his distraught wife. _He was married!_ Her mind would not let that go. She’d not wanted him, not really, but oh she had rather enjoyed the attention he paid her. Without Mary, without Sybil to compete with he’d seemed charming (if a bit too charming) and interested in her – her appearance _and_ her opinion. No one had ever been interested in either of those things, apart from _him_ …

“And what is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Gregson, Lady Edith?” It was framed in such a neutral way for being such a loaded question.

“Professional.” She wanted to snap at the Detective, but that was far too ‘common’ a reaction for the granddaughter of Violet Crawley. So instead she had to settle for icy disdain. It wasn’t nearly so satisfying. “Mr. Gregson is – was – my editor at _The Sketch_ , I’m one of the regular contributors. He invited me to a party this evening at the home of one of his friends in publishing. Connections I make there would be both personally edifying as well as professionally prudent. I am – _was_ – his colleague, not … _never_ his mistress.” Fox studied her intently for several long moments and she did her best not to fidget under his inscrutable gaze.

“You said you were invited here tonight before attending a party.” He finally spoke, pulling a small notebook from the interior pocket of his jacket along with a pen.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Do you recall who was hosting this get together?”

“No, Mic – Mr. Gregson, never told me.” Of course, she’d get into the habit of using his first name now.

“He didn’t tell you the name of your host?”

“No, I asked, but he never answered me. He just said that it was a friend of his in publishing who was interested in my column.” Fox’s eyebrows twitched slightly.

“Did he tell you the address of this party?”

“No, other than it wasn’t far from here, which was why he suggested we met at his flat first and have some dinner before walking over.”

“Was anyone else from your office invited to this party or dinner?”

“I don’t know.” Edith frowned. She didn’t think so. That was something she should have asked earlier.

“Was anyone else from your office aware of tonight’s gathering?”

“If they were invited, perhaps.”

“You don’t know the host’s name, or the address of this party, you’re uncertain if anyone else at _the Sketch_ had been invited or were even aware of the event. Is there anything that you do know about this supposed party?”

“Virginia Woolf was supposed to be there.” She offered weakly. When Detective Fox put it like that, she felt supremely naïve. There was a strong possibility there wasn’t a party at all. No friend in publishing, least of all one interested in her articles.

“I’ll go right around now and ask her for the details then, shall I?” His sarcasm wasn’t welcome, but it was deserved. Good God, she fancied herself a woman of the world, a ‘new woman’ for this new age and Gregson had managed to get her to come to him in his apartment just shy of a silver platter one the vaguest of pretense and the promise of introducing her to Virginia Woolf. He probably didn’t even know the authoress.

“Is the sarcasm a free service or will I be charged extra for it?” Fox stared at her for a moment and then laughed. His mirth was sort lived, however.

“First you tell me you’re going to single handedly bring an abortionist to justice and then today you arrive at my murder scene. What game are you playing, Lady Edith?”

“I don’t play games, Detective. I was invited here.” Fox had told her that this was not a novel, but as she drew her velvet duster more firmly around her shoulders, she realized that it was starting to feel like a book nonetheless, and right now her character was the idiot aristocrat.

“So you keep telling me. For what it’s worth I don’t think you were Michael Gregson’s mistress.” He began.

“Thank y-”

“That story you gave me is incredibly vague and you’re not a good enough actress to _pretend_ to be as stupid as you’ve acted.”

“Excuse me?” No one outside her family had ever called her stupid before, at least not to her face.

“You’re not his mistress, but you’ve managed to put yourself on the suspect list all the same. You’re free to go, Lady Edith, provided you give Constable Flowers an address where we can reach you on your way out and you promise not to leave London.” She was a suspect in a murder investigation. God, for not being a novel it was certainly starting to sound like one. She’d been jilted at the altar, lost her baby sister in the childbed, found a friend nearly dead from an abortion, and now her boss had been murdered and she was a suspect. What on earth could happen next? Downton Abbey be burned to the ground? Some long-lost relative come out of the woodwork? Edith shook her head, clearing all the melodramatic possibilities from her head, and headed for the door. Fox spoke again, just as she began to turn the knob.

“What no declarations about how you’re going to clear your name and bring Mr. Gregson’s killer to justice?” He was not going to let that go. She’d spoken without thinking last time, so furious and impotent faced with Alice’s situation. She was quickly finding herself as frustrated as she was before.

“No, Detective Fox, I have every faith that you give a _damn_ about this crime.” Her dramatic exit was somewhat destroyed by the fact that she needed to find her purse.

Back in the foyer Gregson’s body was being photographed by two uniformed constables while Flowers stood to the side taking dictation. Mrs. Gregson was nowhere to be seen; Edith could only assume the officers had taken her somewhere else in the house to recover. Edith found she couldn’t blame the woman; her husband was dead on the floor. And what else was she to assume given she had just walked into their home without knocking and immediately started screaming Michael’s given name?

Edith vaguely recalled tossing her clutch aside in her rush to try and save the already dead magazine editor, but beyond that she had no idea where it had landed. The foyer was rather spacious, long and well lit. There was a closet behind the front door. A bit further down a consul table stood against the wall, below a large sunburst style mirror which reflected part of the now open living room. There was a lamp on the table as well what looked like a Turkish vase of some sort, the pieces of something extremely fragile … and her clutch purse lying spilled open and covered in white powder. She’d not only managed to stumble upon her boss’s dead body but in her lucky way Edith had also managed to break part of the décor and cause a massive mess. Carefully she picked up her small purse, trying her best to avoid the large shards of porcelain surrounding it.

“Excuse me, Miss, you’re not thinking of removing something from the scene of a crime, are you?” One of the constables who had been photographing Gregson’s body stopped her with a shamming gaze.

“My purse, yes.” She replied, stuffing her compact back into the evening bag. “In my rush to try and assist Mr. Gregson I seemed to have tossed it aside.” Certain that she’d stuffed all her personal effects back in it she awkwardly closed the kiss clasp.

“You’ve already photographed that area, haven’t you Rogers?” Detective Fox spoke from the living room door, she could see him leaning against the jam in the hall mirror.

“Yes sir.” Constable Rogers confirmed.

“Then let the Lady take her belongings. Flowers, please escort Lady Edith downstairs and get her contact information on the way.” The young constable agreed, looking at her wearily.

“Right this way, m’lady.”

Edith arrived back at Bond House utterly exhausted despite the early hour. She knew better than to hope that her arrival would go unnoticed by Mr. Mead, he was as good a butler as Carson, having learned at Downton alongside him before being hired by Uncle Marm for Bond House. But she had held out vein hope that she could get from the front door to her room without being noticed by Aunt Rosamund.

She didn’t make it past the third step.

“You’re home early.” Rosamund’s copper curls, so like her own, poked out of the library.

“Yes, unfortunately I was unable to accompany Mr. Gregson to the party, there was a death.”

“What?” It was rude to not face the person you were speaking with, and Edith realized belatedly that what she had said prompted by far more conversation than it cut off. With a sigh she turned to face her aunt who’d come out of the library, glass of wine in one hand, another one of Uncle Marm’s sweaters draped over her shoulders. Rosamund’s grey eyes widened as she took her in. If she held it closed her new cerulean velvet duster obscured the blood and sick on the knees of her ice blue frock, however her shoes had borne the brunt of Michael’s bodily fluids and they were impossible to hide and impossible to salvage.

“Edith, what happened to your shoes?”

“Mr. Gregson died; I found his body.” In for a penny, in for a pound. With perverse delight Edith allowed her duster to fall open so her Aunt could see the full scale of the destruction the night had caused.

“I can’t _just go back_ to Downton,” Edith said with a heavy sigh as she gracelessly pulled her nightshirt on over her head. “The police quiet explicitly told me to remain in London for the duration of the investigation!” Rosamund had only acquiesced enough to allow Edith to get out of her soiled things. The compromise was that while she was changing Edith had to tell her Aunt everything. She and Anna had had some strange conversations while she was (un)dressing at Downton, but nothing would ever compare to Aunt Rosamund undoing the buttons down her back while she spoke of slipping in a puddle of his sick beside her deceased boss and managing to elbow a constable directly in the family business.

“Dearheart, I’m just thinking of you – your reputation. You’ve found more scandal in the last ten days than people find in a lifetime. Even in our family! First having to commit someone to the hospital for an _abortion_ and then to find your boss’s body, not to say anything of the fact Mrs. Gregson has _very publicly_ accused you of gross impropriety with her husband.” Edith winced. She’d once called Mary a slut, now it seemed like she would be reaping her own sins. The karmic justice would only be complete if her sister found out about Mrs. Gregson’s comments.

And Mary would find out if she went home. But even, if by some miracle, she didn’t Downton would still be unbearable. Mama and Granny would squawk about the scandal and probably try and marry her off as quickly as possible to the first suitable man they could corner and coerce into taking her. Their damaged goods of a daughter. Papa would rant and rave about how this just went to show how dangerous her writing was. As if by having an opinion different from the family line, she had brought this on herself. Or he might lock her in her room, not just to keep the pen out of her hand, but then she could be preserved as the spinster sister, there when he and Mama were aged and in need of care. Far more dignified to have one of their daughters play nurse to them than to hire someone (or for their daughter to ever nurse her husband).

The torments of her family aside Edith knew she’d rather put needles under her nails than leave London. She liked staying with Rosamund and all the interests that the capital could provide. Museums, galleries, concerts, libraries – all were just a tram ride away. She _liked_ writing. _Working._ Being productive. The column gave her some purpose, it was rewarding to sit down and do something with her mind and see it come into print and receive a paycheck for her thoughts rather than just the sufferance of her family before they changed the subject. She was even starting to make friends. Going back to Yorkshire would mean leaving all of this behind and returning to a listless existence. Wandering the empty halls of Downton with nothing to do all day but be caught like a pawn between Mama’s ambitions, Granny’s opinions, and cousin Isobel’s causes – which were _just_ , but entirely _hers_. There would be no more independence. Only varying shades of dependence if she were lucky.

Returning North would mean ghosts. Ghosts of her once purposeful life. Of her once happy life. Of her beautiful, baby sister. Ghosts of _him_ and her wedding day that wasn’t. Even if Detective Fox had forbidden her from leaving London there was no way Edith would return to Downton Abbey. Not for a very long time.

* * *

[1] I love snake plants because they’re pretty hard to kill. They’re also neat because their other name is ‘Mother-in-law’s tongue’, which I find amusing.

The 'pen ran out of ink, this is a new pen' comment is straight off one of my first drafts of my Masters thesis. Graduate School is fun.


	5. IV. 23 October 1920 [Saturday]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I do not own Downton Abbey, any characters or situations related to it. If you recognize it, it’s probably not mine. The mistakes, however – those are all mine.

Rosamund had practically forbidden her from leaving the house. She had actually forbidden her from visiting Opal again. As much as Edith loved her Aunt, there were times she could be worse than Granny about things. She had gone full Miss Bingley when Edith had let slip her friend lived in Cheapside and no discussion of etymology could convince her the neighborhood was once the principle market of London and not some poverty-stricken hovel. And that was before poor Alice had been tossed into her lap.

However, Rosamund had never been the forgotten daughter. With a line to Mrs. Pyke after breakfast about going to the library to do some research for her upcoming column Edith slipped free of her would-be cage. And, to be fair, she did in fact walk to the library. From there she rung Opal and invited herself over. Rosamund didn’t understand that Edith _needed_ to see Opal and Lori. Lori was probably the only person who could give her an update about Alice’s condition. More importantly, Opal could watch the wires and see how much information was released to the press about Gregson’s death. If at all possible, her name had to be kept from the press, Rosamund had been sympathetic enough with her reasons for not wanting to return to Downton. Her father would not be. If he caught word of the scandal, he would be on the first train to cart her back to Yorkshire, dragging her by her hair if he had to.

Edith checked out two books about women’s health, a book about poisonous plants, and the newly released _In Chancery_ by John Galsworthy. Alibi safely tucked in her shoulder bag Edith walked the short distance to the tube and caught the direct line across town, arriving at the Mansion House stop twenty-two minutes later. Walking the few blocks from the station to Opal’s address Edith had to laugh. “ _Come as you are_ ” she’d said. Clearly the invitation had been issued without knowing just what drama being a Crawley brought with it.

Opal Larson’s flat on Bread Street was ironically located over a florist. It was on the third of four floors, including the shop, the stair was in good repair with modern electric lights shining brightly overhead. However, the wallpaper was faded and slightly out of fashion and there was the faintest smell of ‘old building’ that was still detectible over the scent of flowers. Standing outside the modest door of apartment 3 Edith adjusted her tote and smoothed her appearance before knocking. She was woefully underdressed for visiting. In fact, by her mother’s standards she was underdressed for any form of outing. Cora Crawley could be refreshingly American but there were times that she was as much of a stickler for propriety as any of her English in-laws. Appearance was one of those times. Edith however was not living with her mother and found her simple herringbone skirt, boots, and plain white blouse perfectly acceptable. She’d topped the ensemble off, in a habit picked up from Aunt Rosamund, with one of Uncle Marm’s cardigans, this one shawl collared and a soft cream. She knocked.

Any concerns she’d had about her attire were gone as Lori answered the door. Nurse Stanton was wearing in trousers. Not jodhpurs either, but proper trousers in a Harris tweed.

“Edith, come in!” She greeted her warmly, stepping back to let he into the flat. What animosity she’d felt when they’d been at the clinic had clearly disappeared.

“You’ve made it.” Opal rose from the small sofa with a smile. The living room was long, narrow, and perhaps the coziest room she’d ever had the pleasure to set foot in (even more than _his_ library, which she loved but lacked the soft throws, pillows, and other subtle feminine touches of comfort.) There were large windows overlooking the street behind the door, bathing the room in autumnal light. The floors were a warm toned wood and covered by colorful rugs. A plush sofa divided the room in half, beyond its cheery red velvet she could see a small dining table with four mismatched chairs tucked around it. The only thing more over laden than the bar, which was off to one corner, was the set of matching floor-to-ceiling bookcases. It was in that moment that Edith knew that she desperately wanted to be friends with these women.

“Second time lucky.” Edith offered with an unladylike shrug.

The pleasantries of offering her a seat and a cuppa were quickly, if slightly awkwardly, dispatched. Lori had disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the tea (it was off the area reserved as a dining space, white wainscot paneled wall blocking the view), but left it to Opal to play mother.

“Edith, it’s not that we don’t want your company,” Opal began as she poured a splash of milk into one of the brocade patterned tea cups. When Opal Larson played mother, she played to win. She sounded exactly like Cora when she was determining which topics of conversation would or would not be allowed that day. “But what is so important that you needed to see us _today_?”

“How is Alice?” Edith did desperately want to know what had come of the girl once she left the hospital, and she didn’t want her to be lost in the inevitable other conversation.

“She’s recovering… Thanks, Love.” Lori assured her, accepting her tea, made to preference without any questions by Opal (the perk of a flat mate, Edith could only surmise). “She refuses to let us call any family or even friends, so I’ve been sitting with her some. She’s told me a little of her ordeal.” Edith leaned forward.

“Oh?”

“Yes, while she won’t tell me how she was put in contact with George she did say that she was picked up by a man outside Royal Albert Hall, he took her in a windowless van, they drove for a time. The door off the alleyway was green, she was taken upstairs, and she distinctly remembers the smell of baking bread.”

“We were on Cheapside when those animals stopped my cab and tossed Alice in my lap. Given her state they couldn’t have traveled far.” All they would need to do was walk a few blocks around Cheapside and find a bakery with a room above it and a green door.

“Yes, but what would we do with him if we found him?” Opal, ever the practical cynic.

“I can think of a few things.” Lori growled.

“Detective Fox said that even if I brought him in gift wrapped, they would not be able to charge him without evidence. Perhaps we could find some?”

“Or we walk in on him and wind up getting stabbed.”

“That would be evidence!”

“It might come as a shock,” The dark-haired nurse said, smoothing her trousers of imaginary wrinkles, “but I do have a sense of self-preservation.” Before Edith or Opal could say anything, she continued:

“That’s not all Alice told me.” Edith found herself leaning further forward still. If Lori continued to offer up tidbits of information, she’d fall clean out of the leather camelback chair. “The baby was Gregson’s.”

“No!” She knew she sounded like a gossip starved society mama, gasping like _that_ over tea but she couldn’t help it.

“Yes! They’d been seeing each other for a few months. He ended it when she told him about the baby.”

“The _bastard._ ” Opal chimed in. Edith had to agree. And it was no wonder why Mrs. Gregson thought there was something wrong with her marriage, Michael _was_ having an affair. Just not with her. Although, she realized now, it wasn’t for lack of trying. The pain and anger and loneliness of losing _him_ had apparently made her prey to unscrupulous men. The likes of Michael Gregson could not have been what _he_ meant when he told her she should find some young, whole man to love her.

There was a lull as the three sipped their tea, all angry, all deeply hurt on behalf of poor Alice. And, in Edith’s case, she was trying to figure out what to say next. It was a Saturday, which meant the offices of _The Sketch_ were more or less closed. She doubted, therefore, that the police had been yet to investigate his office or tell the staff that their editor was dead. She would guess that if they came to the office at all, it would be Monday morning when the greatest number of people would be at work.

“I have some news at Mr. Gregson, actually.” She sat her cup back on the delicate saucer.

“Oh?” Lori had also lowered her cup.

“He’s dead.” Opal had not.

“WHAT?!” Opal chocked, her roommate pounding on her back to help her clear her throat.

“He died yesterday evening; we think he was murdered.” Detective Fox hadn’t said that but as naïve as she could be she could see the signs – the questions, the number of constables swarming the apartment, the fact that as far as she could tell Michael Gregson was a normal, healthy man and he had died on his floor in a pool of his own sick, curled in the fetal position.

“Murdered?!” Opal managed, the same time Lori questioned, “WE?!”

Edith took a deep breath, Detective Fox, not to mention Aunt Rosamund had already made very clear how foolish she’d been last night. She did not relish the idea of telling Opal and Lori about it too, not when she wanted their friendship. Easily duped by men was not a trait she thought they would find appealing.

“Michael invited me to a party at a publisher friend of his’s flat. I was to meet him at his and then walk over. When I arrived, his door was open, and he was dead on the floor.”

“You found him?” It was Opal’s turn to sound like a gossiping aunt. She shook her head.

“Mrs. Gregson did, I walked into the middle of their investigation, slipped on his sick and landed on a constable.” A blush burned across the back of her neck.

“Oh, Darling.” Lori laughed. Edith could see the humor, although could not feel it herself, the memory was still too fresh, too close.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was married?” Edith looked at Opal accusingly.

“ _Really_?” The office manager looked at her dubiously.

“Love, not everyone has _your taste_.” The roommates shared a meaningful look. Edith felt the blush creep from her neck to her ears and across to her cheeks.

“I wasn’t interested.” She protested, feeling rather like Hamlet’s mother. But really, she hadn’t, not seriously, not like that. She’d appreciated his flirting because it made her feel desirable. After _he_ left her, she had wondered – doubted – herself. Feared that she would be alone for the rest of her life. And she would be, of course, because the man she loved had _abandoned_ her. But she could take comfort as she died alone surrounded by cats that she was, at least, still desirable. If utterly alone.

“Darling, you’re the color of this sofa, are you sure?” Edith sipped her tea and then took a deep cleansing breath.

“Positive.” She said with conviction. “I appreciated his attentions for the novelty of them, I am unused to flirtations. Had I known he was spoken for I would never have accepted them even for that.” She also had to wonder why on earth he had invited her to his flat last night without indicating that his wife would be there? She would have been by far more willing to accept his proposal for dinner, knowing she would not be a single woman alone with him. Lori and Opal exchanged another look.

“Yes, Mr. Gregson was married. I can’t blame you for not knowing it, the way he carried on. Alice was not the first woman I know he had an affair with. Mrs. Gregson’s family owns an estate in Essex. Her father is Patrick Carter-Nelson, he’s actually the majority owner of _The Sketch_. Michael and Roger are co-editors, and hold equal shares, but most of what _The Sketch_ has is because of him.”

“Why on earth would he step out on his wife if her father is so important?” Edith couldn’t abide infidelity of any sort, but in this case, it seemed particularly stupid.

“His motives I cannot attest to, his opportunity, however I can explain. Mrs. Gregson doesn’t live in London; she has chosen to remain in Essex on the family estate. Mr. Gregson spends his week in London at his flat and then spends most weekends in the country with her.”

“Really? Because I most definitely saw Mrs. Gregson in Michael’s flat last night, she accused me of being his mistress right before she collapsed.”

“She what?”

“She thought I was Michael’s mistress, and told the police and then she sunk to the floor. She didn’t look well at all.”

“He was an utterly deplorable human, but I suppose he was also her husband and death is never pleasant.” Lori was thoughtful, running a hand through her long, loose dark hair. Opal took a long drink of her tea.

“He was clearly trying to get you alone, Edith.” Opal finally said, she nodded, in hindsight his intentions were clear. There was probably never was a party to attend, it was all a pretense. “So, his wife must have been a surprise, there is no way he would invite you to something real – or not – if his wife was in town.” She had a point.

“I have a favor to ask of you.” Edith began, her mind still mulling what to do with the information Opal offered.

“Oh…?”

“And I realize I’m possibly asking you to go against all kinds of journalistic ethics, but could you keep me abreast of any developments regarding this case and how – what – information is reaching the press?” She twisted the hem of her sweater in her hands, a nervous tic Granny had done her level best to drive out of her as a child. It only resurfaced now in the most extreme moments. “Mrs. Gregson made me a suspect in the investigation, if this information is reported my family will not be pleased.” To put things mildly. Lori studied her, suddenly critical and sharp.

“And you fear what your father will do?” Edith shook her head.

“He’s not a violent man.” He’d not even spanked her, both he and Mama chose to leave both education and discipline to the various nurses, nannies, and governesses they employed. Even if she misbehaved in front of her parents, she was disciplined by Nanny. As if that absolved her parents of ever swat she received, and she had received more than her fair share of them (Mary, blasted Mary was always good at getting her in trouble, by either playing on her admittedly abominable temper or by framing her for deeds she had not done). “But he will make me wish I was never born. Most likely if he heard he would arrive on the first train and drag me back to Yorkshire by my hair and lock me away until I became the woman in the wallpaper.” Lori and Opal exchanged another look.

“I’m not a journalist, so passing you any information I might hear is no violation of my ethics, but what will that do to help you. _The Sketch_ is but one magazine and it’s not going to run anything to jeopardize itself. If you wanted to stop this story in its tracks, you’d be better off speaking to the office managers at _The Times_ and other presses.”

“You’re right, of course.” Edith conceded. Sir Richard Carlisle would not hesitate to drag her through the mud if he caught wind of this potential scandal. He’d not brought Mary to her knees despite knowing about Mr. Pamuk, but he’d also loved her in his own, selfish way. He held no such affections for her. “But forewarned is forearmed. And if that’s the best I can hope for, at least I’ll have that.”

**#**

Edith returned to Bond Street an hour later. The conversation had slowly drifted from Gregson’s death and the threats of scandal and poor Alice’s condition to more friendly, relaxed topics. It was, unpleasantness aside, an enjoyable conversation. Opal and Lori were nothing like the women Edith had grown up with – not her sisters or the other daughters of the elite. Nor were they like Anna, or Gwen, or Daisy. They were independent. Free in a way Edith had never felt before. They made the agreements they were responsible for. They answered to no one but themselves and each other. It was an independence Edith envied. And one she aspired to. Losing _him_ had broken her heart but perhaps independence could be her solace now that _he_ was gone. And it was a fitting one, leaving the family, it was after all Papa and Granny who had pushed _him_ to _his_ breaking point. They had clearly shown that they didn’t care about her happiness, they cared about the family’s appearance. Things just wouldn’t have looked right to have a daughter, however happy, with a husband who wasn’t able bodied.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Rosamund was waiting for her when she came home. Her tone was half annoyed, half amused, and after taking in her outfit, half confused.

“Library.” Edith fished _In Chancery_ out of her bag. It was a trick she had learned as a young teen at Downton. When she wanted to get away from the house, she would say she was painting. She soon learned that not only could she get some peace for herself, but no one expected her back for hours, which meant she could do more than just get some peace. However, she was expected to have something to show for her excursion. Mama was always more attentive to Sybil or Mary than her, but she did like art and had encouraged Edith to take it up. Having something to show was important, however Mama was never attentive enough to notice if the painting looked recent or not.

“You spent almost four hours at the library?”

“I was researching for my next article.” Rosamund narrowed her eyes. Edith resisted the urge to narrow her own right back at her.

“Well, looking at your outfit I feel safe that you didn’t get caught in _another_ scandal while you were out. Get your article taken care of now, I’ve just heard back from Perry, I expect you to be present and correct for dinner this Tuesday at eight.” It was rapidly becoming clear to Edith that Rosamund had been planning this dinner well before she so casually, cautiously proposed it to her. Although her Aunt insisted it was informal and a “low pressure” return to society, Edith knew that even the simplest entertaining required more time than two weeks to settle. There were times Rosamund was every inch her mother’s daughter. If manipulation didn’t work than velvet covered force would do the trick.

“Of course, he’s still insisting on bringing that galling Gallic stick insect.” Rosamund continued with a dismissive hand wave and frown. ‘Perry’ was Peregrine Painswick, Uncle Marm’s younger brother. He worked in banking, like Marmaduke had, doing something with foreign investments that no one in the family ever quite understood. His first wife, Regan Hamleigh Painswick, had died about six years ago. Since then he’d been in the company of Adélaïde Moreau. Edith had learned all of this, but never why her Aunt despised the other woman so.

“But Honoria Smythe and dear Aurelia will be there so I suppose we can all muddle through.” Aurelia Wilton was a friend of Rosamund’s and worked with her on several committees. Edith had met her last month at an organizing tea for the women’s hospital board. She seemed a nice enough woman, about Rosamund’s age, with fabulous taste in shoes…and a twenty-five-year-old son. Edith barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and huff. She’d not met Mrs. Smythe but Edith would bet her best shoes that the woman wouldn’t be bringing a single daughter along with her for dinner. Opal and Lori’s tiny flat seemed more and more attractive. She knew that being an Earl’s daughter was seen as such a glamorous life – wearing fine frocks and eating lavish meals was more than most women could ever hope for. But oh, what she wouldn’t give for a simple sandwich eaten over the sink and the rest of the evening to devote to her own enjoyments. Her ruminations were only encouraging her Aunt to keep talking, and while learning the guest list ahead of time gave her a chance to prepare ahead of time, Edith wasn’t paying attention.

**#**

Edith retired to her room as quickly as she was able. Thankfully Auntie’s monologuing had only gone on another few minutes, long enough for her to figure out the general attendance for Tuesday’s dinner party. And the fact that, again, despite Rosamund’s assurances that this was a simple evening, it was going to be as formal as something Mama might have suggested. Which meant that not only would she need to pull something suitable out of her closet but also it would be hours of tedious entertaining her Aunt’s friends and their marriageable sons. Thankfully she wasn’t required to be in _The Sketch_ offices, but still Edith treated her column as her job. Of all the people in her family, save perhaps Matthew and Cousin Isobel, Rosamund should have some understanding of what it meant to have work the next morning. Surely, she hadn’t thrown midweek dinner parties while Uncle Marm was alive and had to be at the bank by nine.

With a sigh she threw open her closet. If dinner was Tuesday, she needed to decide now what she wanted to wear for it so Phryne, Rosamund’s new lady’s maid, could have it ready. She’d not brought many gowns with her when she decided to come to London, at the time she was certain she’d never want to go to another formal dinner or event again. She’d not seen the point nor the opportunity. Who would want to invite the Crawley’s spinster daughter to anything? A woman so undesirable she was abandoned at the altar. Mama had insisted that she pack a few, “Just in case”. Edith examined them now, considering her options. There was her rose colored frock with floral embellishments at the neck and waist, it was an extremely flattering color on her, she knew, a great compliment with her complexion and the rose gold in her hair. She also had brought her green velvet gown, despite the memories it brought along. _He_ had liked the sumptuous texture of it almost as much as she had. And then there was her newest dress, one she’d had made just before _that day_. It was a lovely shade of cornflower blue, a silk dress with a beaded lace overlay with a deep V in the front and back. The overlay was mostly navy but with some shades of green through out in the lace and the stones, the matching pale seafoam green gloves were stashed in her dressing table, as yet unworn, like the dress.

That was the dress, she decided. There was no reason saving it, she doubted very much she’d have many other options aside from Tuesday for such finery. And as it was new there wouldn’t be any alterations to be made or cleaning. Just a simple hang out and airing. Carefully she pulled the dress out and hung it on the peg beside the closet, watching as the slight train brushed the ground. Shaking herself Edith turned to the small secretary Rosamund had placed in her usual room. The window seat prevented her from placing it with a view, but she didn’t mind. The wall above the secretary she had fitted with a pinboard which made organizing her thoughts and notes much easier than trying to fit everything on the narrow surface of the desk itself. Carefully she began removing the clippings and notes from her last article and placing them in a folder along with all of her drafts of the piece. Rosamund had understood her request for a writing table but had been confused when Edith had specifically asked for a secretary. However, Edith felt it was important for her to have ample storage space so she might file her articles. She didn’t know if she’d want to revisit anything after publication, but she didn’t rule out the possibility that she would want to do a follow up or need to find a citation for someone. If she was going to be a columnist, she intended to do her job well.

Feeling sufficiently organized Edith sat. Her mind, however, would not shift to the article she hoped to start – taking up the claim she’d axed out of the last column and giving it the space and attention, it deserved. Instead it kept circling the events of the last week. Carefully she pulled out her writing pad and flipped to a clean page.

_Alice Waters_ she wrote at the top. _Age: 20? Secretary – Art Department, The Sketch. Fired, ~ last week.   
Pregnant by M. Gregson.   
Sought termination from G. Witten, 19/10/20. Picked up at Royal Albert Hall, taken somewhere near Bread Street. Green door, bakery smells, second floor. _

_Michael Gregson,_ she wrote on the other side of the stenography line. _Editor, minority owner The Sketch. Age: 30s.   
Married: Mrs. Gregson, daughter of Patrick Carter-Nelson.  
P. Carter-Nelson = Majority owner The Sketch.   
Lives apart during the week - he in London, she in Essex.  
Affairs: Several, including A. Waters (pregnant)  
Died: Friday evening. Vomit with blood, fetal position (Poison??)  
Clearly wasn’t expecting a visit from his wife, or else he wouldn’t have invited me to his flat/ “a party”.   
If poisoned, Mrs. Gregson might have been as well – she looked quite ill (Sweaty, pale, blotchy, weak)._

Edith sat her pen down at that thought. She was no doctor, nor was she familiar with poisons, beyond what appeared in a mystery novel. It was entirely possible that Mrs. Gregson was simply unwell – a stomach bug could also make a woman blotchy, sweaty, and weak. _However_ , a voice in her head that sounded oddly like Opal said, _if she had the flu why would she go to London? She resided with her parents, they would have the means and resources to nurse her. Certainly, more so than Gregson_.

_Perhaps it was late onset_? _Or food poisoning_? She chewed the end of her pen as she debated with herself.

Unbid a memory floated to the surface of her mind as she tried to adjudicate within herself what was wrong with Mrs. Gregson. When she was eight and her cousin Patrick was ten, she’d caught a butterfly. She remembered being so proud of herself, and going to show it off to Patrick, somehow expecting him to be impressed. She’d fallen foolishly in love with him that summer and oh how she wanted his attention. So, she caught him a butterfly. And at first, he’d seemed interested. He had asked Carson for a jar so they could take a better look at the delicate little thing flitting around her net. He’d then gone to one of the hedges and broken off a few leaves for the jar. It’d give the butterfly something of the outside even when it was inside, he’d explained at the time. And so they’d sealed the beautiful, tiny little creature in the jar. And Patrick had been right, it was much easier to see the pretty orange and black wings, framed in white flit and flutter…and wilt and die. Patrick had laughed but she had burst into tears when she realized the beautiful butterfly was dead. She’d only wanted to keep it for a short time, see its wings up close, show off a bit to her cousin that she could do something so skillful as catch a butterfly. Instead she had killed the little thing.

Mrs. Hughes had found her in the library trying to open the jar, as if that could bring the poor thing back to life. She’d taken one look at it and hurriedly taken the jar away. Cyanide, she’d learned later. The clippings from the hedge Patrick had taken produced cyanide and trapped in a jar the butterfly had been quickly poisoned.

_If_ Gregson and his wife had been poisoned it certainly wasn’t something airborne, like laurel cuttings. There had been at least five police officers in the apartment, plus Detective Fox and herself and no one fell ill. _So how does one poison two people? Particularly when one didn’t live at the flat all of the time?_ Edith stared off into the middle distance as she tried to think through options. When she thought of poison, not that she did often, she always pictured something from _Romeo and Juliet_ , some potion kept in a small glass vial with a cork stopper. She doubted Gregson would drink such a thing, let alone share it with his wife. She could assume if he was poisoned, he wouldn’t have consumed it willingly.

Below the notes about Alice and Gregson she drew a line straight across the pad. _Maid?_ She wrote. Perhaps Gregson and his wife were poisoned by someone else. Considering Michael had had no compunctions about sleeping with the secretaries at _The Sketch_ , perhaps he’d also taken a liking to the staff in his own home. The maid might have wanted to get back at him for treating her as poorly as he treated Alice. Considering Mrs. Gregson was so rarely at the London flat she doubted that the Maid would be trying to poison her. Edith tapped the pen against her teeth again as she thought. There hadn’t been any maid that Edith had seen when she was at the flat. So, it probably hadn’t been poured into the tea right after it was brewed. Her eyes, unfocused as she though, landed on her dresser, where lying on its shiny lacquered top was her clutch from Friday. She’d completely forgotten about it in all the excitement.

There was a lot of glass in the small bag – from whatever she’d managed to break. There was also a not inconsequential amount of fine white powder. Hesitantly she lifted the clutch to her nose. _Really, Edie?_ Opal was once again in her head. _You think your boss was poisoned so you decide to sniff an unknown powder you found at his house?_ It didn’t smell like tooth powder, and it wasn’t as fine as talcum powder, but beyond that she was at a loss as to even how to begin to identify it. Carefully she closed her clutch. Lori was a nurse; she knew from Sybil’s training that nurses had to take all kinds of science courses. Surely there was a test…?

_Powder._ She jotted down. She’d have to ask Opal Monday.


	6. V. 26-27 October 1920 [Tuesday – Wednesday]

Tuesday evening Edith was dressed and ready to receive guests by 7:30. It wasn’t that she was eager for the party. In fact, it was the opposite. She was down early because the only way she was going to survive the night was if she’d had at least two aperitifs before going through for dinner. At least her dress was fitting well and, tentatively, she thought she looked good. Miss Robinson was a genius with hair, even more so than O’Brien. Mead was stationed by the door already, prepared for the evening’s guests to arrive at any minute, which left the bar cart unattended in the sitting room. Edith approached it slowly, taking off her gloves. Generally, Carson or Mead mixed the drinks, but she’d watched them make drinks hundreds of time. And, over tea on Saturday, she and Lori talked cocktails and baking for at least fifteen minutes straight. “Better living through chemistry” she’d said.

Carefully Edith filled the mixing glass with ice until it was freezing to the touch and then carefully added the gin, dash of vermouth and a pinch of salt. A trick Lori swore by (we salt food to bring out flavors, why not our drinks?)[1] She put several ice cubes in the coup glass as well to chill it before she began carefully stirring her drink, the long, thin spoon pinging occasionally off the glass of the mixing carafe. _Stir until you get bored and then keep going._ Thirty second later she dumped the ice in her glass back into the bucket and then strained her martini into the glass. She picked up the channel knife and carefully peeled a long twist of lemon off the fruit, as she had seen Carson do a thousand times. She twisted it over the drink, and then ran it around the rim before dropping it in the crystal-clear alcohol. She took a long sip from her creation.

 _Oh God, that’s good._ She suppressed a moan as the citrus and botanicals warmed her. With a good cocktail she could handle just about anything.

That had been a lie.

And what was worse, she had to monitor her wine intake since she wouldn’t be topped up until the next course was brought out and the new bottle opened. Drinking, however, was one way to mask her facial expressions. Rosamund had been in fine form. Edith was seated at the middle of the table, with young Archie Wilton on her left and Alec Smythe on her right. Both were of marriageable age, able bodied, and scions of the London Banking elite, much the same as Marmaduke Painswick had been.

Archie Wilton, her conversation partner for the soup and fish courses had actually been pleasant to talk to, if extremely young. She had learned from his mother that he was twenty-five, but he didn’t look at day over twelve (she was only slightly exaggerating). He was tall and thin, with his mother’s weak chin and father’s too sharp nose, he was an unfortunate combination of his parents. She could relate to that. In spite of his odd features he was otherwise charming. They talked about gin, and jazz, and were just getting started talking about a recent scavenger hunt he’d been on and the Napier T75 he’d used to win, taking on a friend’s Morris Cowley in the final straight leading up to the house, when Aunt Rosamund turned the table.

Alec Smythe was handsome, with enough jawline that he could have leant some to poor Archie and still had chin to spare. He was older too and filled out the way an adult man should be. It was a promising start, up until he opened his mouth.

“I overheard you talking with Mr. Wilton about cars before we came through, what are you driving?” She tried to be pleasant. To make small talk.

“You’re too pretty to be interested in cars. You were kind to humor Archie, but we don’t have to discuss such masculine topics, just to appease me. Tell me about this frock, is it new?” His tone set her teeth on edge.

“Actually, I am quite a keen driver.” He smiled at her around a bite of food. She hoped he choked.

“I’m sure you think you are.”

“I think I would know if I was interested in something or not.” Like this conversation. She was decidedly NOT interested in Alec Smythe, except for perhaps as the victim in a cozy mystery. Edith was sure the Murderer would have good reason for their actions and be allowed to escape into the night.

“Women always think they like things only to later they decide that they don’t. Driving in particular, girls take it up as a lark, but women just aren’t meant to be motorists.” For a moment Edith weighed her options. If she said nothing he would, hopefully, stop talking and she wouldn’t be put off her steak any more than she already was. However, he’d take her silence as agreement. If she argued back, the conversation would continue. If she stabbed him with her fork, he would shut up, she probably wouldn’t be forced into any more dinners, but Rosamund would undoubtably send her back to Downton to molder in that tomb.

“That is such an odd thing to say, considering the first motorist in the world was a woman. Then there is of course, Miss Ramsey, who drove herself and three other women across the entire United States. And, lest we forget, women were driving ambulances at the Front in France and Belgium.”

“And what would you know about female ambulance drivers in the war, _My Lady_?”

“Downton Abbey, my family estate, served as a convalescence home during the war. I assisted the nurses and doctors looking after the service men who were our patients. Some of them told me of the women who drove them back from the front. I later did some research on the FANY for an article I wrote.”[2]

“Oh God, don’t tell me you also pretend to be a writer, too.”

“I don’t pretend at anything, Mr. Smythe. I am actually _employed_ as a columnist for _The Sketch_ Magazine.” Edith knew she had raised her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Not even her father, as conservative and tactless as he was, had ever managed to insult her _to her face_ for five minutes straight. She could almost admire his unwavering self-confidence and complete lack of awareness if it wasn’t so damn annoying. To be that sure of your opinions in the face of opposition and evidence and not once think about perhaps not speaking, let alone changing your mind, was nigh impressive.

“Employed?!” Smythe exclaimed, chocking slightly on his steak. “No wife of mine will _ever_ be employed.”

“Well, Mr. Smythe, I am most _certainly not_ a wife of yours.” It was at that point that his mother, who was seated on his other side broke from conversation with her husband to intervene. She managed to steer small talk onto a discussion of gardening, the entire time giving Edith a look like it was her fault her son persisted in giving his useless and pugnacious opinions. There was a time when Mrs. Smythe’s glare would have withered her. But now Edith couldn’t care less. Too much had changed since she was a girl who could be cowed into what was ‘proper’ by a matron with no connection to or appreciation for her life.

As soon as the sexes separated (Perry Painswick acting as host for the men’s scotch and cigars in the dining room), Rosamund was at her elbow.

“I seem to remember, dearheart, a promise you made to me about being punctual and _polite_ at this dinner tonight.” She hissed.

“At the risk of sounding petulant, he started it.” Edith snapped, pulling her arm free from her aunt’s silken grasp. She made her way over to the bar cart, once again unsupervised as Mead was in the dining room lighting cigars. Rosamund followed, a very Violet Crawley look in her eye.

“And,” Edith continued, dropping a few chunks of ice into a rocks glass before pouring herself a generous serving of Grand Marnier. “I seem to recall you saying that this was to be a low-pressure evening, with no expectations that I start looking for a husband yet.”

“You haven’t acted out like this since you were a child. Get yourself together, my girl. You might not want the young Mr. Smythe for a husband, but I still have to deal with his parents on a regular basis.” Her aunt, much like her mother, had the unpleasant skill of delivering an ultimatum with a smile. She gracefully left Edith at the bar cart to fume into her orange cognac.

“Lady Edith,” A French accent interrupted her ill-humor as Adélaïde Moreau approached her in a cloud of expensive perfume and an even more expensive gown. Her auburn hair was bound up in an elaborate Grecian inspired style, a bandeau crowned with a spray of peacock feathers in the center of her forehead.

“Madam Moreau.” Perhaps Aunt Rosamund disliked the woman so much because she had an energy about her that could make anyone else feel old and dull by comparison. The woman had to be at least ten years older than her, and yet standing side by side Edith couldn’t help but feel the ugly duckling to the other woman’s swan.

“I must tell you, as another woman motorist amongst the ranks of the employed,” She shared a cheeky smile as she spoke and a very chic wink, “how much I have enjoyed reading your column in _The Sketch_.”

“Thank you, I am so glad at least someone is enjoying my work.”

“I was very sorry to hear about the death of Michael Gregson; he was a good man.” Edith might have uttered such a platitude herself, if she had not been the one to find his body, and he had died about two weeks earlier. But now, she knew too much about him to make such a claim. So instead she sipped her digestif and acknowledged the woman with a polite hum.

“How did you know Mr. Gregson?”

“Through his wife, of course. Lizzie – Mrs. Gregson – is a dear friend of mine. I have been a loyal customer of her father’s for years.”

“Her father is in business, I believe?” She felt it a more polite question than, ‘what on earth are you importing in such quantities that you’re ‘very dear friends’? It was Madam Moreau’s turn to hum politely.

“Indeed, he specializes in imports. The most beautiful rugs and vases, as well as the specialty items that helped me design and decorate my bathhouse to the standard I desired.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Rosamund always talked about the Turkish bath in Westminster like it was a bordello. But while Madam Moreau could be dramatic and excessive, and excessively dramatic, Edith still doubted that respected banker Peregrine Painswick would really associate so publicly with an _actual_ madam.

“Have you ever been to a bathhouse, Lady Edith?” There were no such establishments near Downton. And, considering that even Aunt Rosamund found the places suspect, Edith very much doubted that even if there was a bath in Yorkshire her father would forbid her from even saying the name, let alone visiting one. She shook her head.

“I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure. I’ve only just moved to London, you see, there is nothing like your establishment in Yorkshire.” Madam Moreau gracefully inclined her head, a smile playing across her blood red lips.

“Then by all means, you must come and visit me at mine. I think you’d find it most relaxing. I’ve recently hired a delightful masseuse from Baden-Baden as well as an expert in French waxing.”[3] Edith wasn’t entirely familiar with ‘French waxing’ but considering the look in the woman’s eye as she said it, she was able to infer. The thought made her wince. She sipped her drink to cover this, but Madam Moreau saw all the same and chuckled sympathetically.

“Michael hadn’t suggested it?” Her voice was lower than before.

“Your bath?”

“No, a French wax. He was quite fond of how they looked. And the skin is always so soft, after.” Some of the Grand Marnier found itself going down entirely the wrong way, of the answers Edith had been expecting, that was not one of them. For a moment she was so shocked she forgot how to swallow. 

“I’m sorry, _what_?” thumping on her chest would be less than dignified, so she settled for a firm hand there and trying to remember to breath.

“I know you and Michael were close. That you were at his flat the night he died.”

“How did you hear such a thing.” She hissed.

“As I told you, Lizzie is a _very_ dear friend of mine.” Mrs. Gregson. Mrs. Gregson was telling people that her husband was entertaining other women the night he died – that her husband was entertaining _her._ She felt a bit faint. She had thought a leak from the police would be what brought her reputation low, not the widow herself!

“I’m afraid there has been a grave misunderstanding.” With all the poise she could muster Edith spoke. “Mr. Gregson was my editor. He invited me to attend a party with some publishers Friday evening, we were to meet at his flat and walk over together. I arrived per his invitation and found the door open and then his body on the ground. I tried to offer some assistance – like any other person would. Our relationship was _strictly professional._ ” That blood red smile was back, it was a doubting smile, a damnably knowing smile.

“As you say, Lady Edith.” The dining room door opened, signaling the return of the men. “Just know,” the Frenchwoman continued, “that if you find yourself in need, I am always available to help.”

And with that she left in the same cloud of perfume and silk.

**#**

_I had the misfortune to overhear a first date the other day. I know mother says eavesdropping is poor manners, but the conversation was easily heard and so painful I couldn’t pull my attention away. And I did try. But, like a crash, I couldn’t turn away, no matter how badly I wanted to. The pair were of a similar age, about thirty, both clearly well to do, and evenly matched in appearance. There was nothing to warn that the date would be anything other than lovely, until, of course, He opened his mouth._

Edith sat at her desk Wednesday morning, words pouring out of her brain and onto the steno pad in front of her. The remainder of the evening last night had not been quite as painful as the main and pudding courses, but it hadn’t been pleasant either. Rosamund had watched her like a hawk the entire night and Madam Moreau’s blood red smirk had dogged her steps. Plus, Alec Smythe had tried to again inform her on how her every opinion was wrong. Archie Wilton had tried to come to her rescue, valiantly trying to keep up a back and forth about car engines, but they both eventually exhausted what they could say about a flat versus an inline versus a straight six.

Writing, with the benefit of hindsight and morning light, Edith was beginning to realize that as Smythe told her time and again how she was wrong, he kept watching her and waiting. Like he expected her to change her position to agree with him. Or perhaps he was waiting for her to crumble into a pile, his words intended to chip chunks off her self-esteem until she was nothing but rubble. He’d clearly never met Mary Crawley. His attempts to negate her were nothing compared to what her sister had put her through her entire life. His resistance had only made her stronger in her beliefs and hobbies. That irony was what she hoped she could capture with the right level of humor as well as critique.

Working her thoughts out on paper also gave her a perfect reason to sit for the entire day in the office. It had been five days since Michael Gregson had died, in that time the police had not established much in his death, but every piece of information they did have was faithfully retrieved by a staff writer at _The Sketch._ Roger Darling, now the sole editor of _The Sketch_ was extremely concerned to control the story of his co-editor’s death, for the sake of the magazine. All information was vital if they were going to have to get out in front of a scandal. It helped her keep abreast of her own potential scandal. It also meant that there was a massive hole in the order and authority of _The Sketch_. Before Michael was in charge of overseeing the written submissions – he made sure writers met their deadlines, kept to the word limits, picked appropriate topics for the Magazine’s vision. He did the final edits on content and signed off on which articles would be featured, and where the remainder would fit in the final edition. Roger Darling was in charge of the art. He designed the cover, oversaw the artists who were responsible for the sketches or photographs associated with various articles, as well as how the text would be arranged on the page, the font which would be used, the kerning and tracking, and so on. Under each editor there were clear lines of communication, responsibility and hierarchy.

And now, with Gregson dead, it was like someone had pulled a thread on a jumper and the entire thing had unraveled. Edith hadn’t really thought the man was the linchpin of the magazine before, but his death created absolute chaos. Poor Mr. Darling was trying to do the editorial work of two in addition to keeping an ear to the ground regarding his partner’s murder. And then, of course, there was the complete breakdown of hierarchy. With Gregson gone and Darling’s back turned there was coups rumbling amongst the staff. Multiple coups.

“Edith,” Opal approached her desk, looking more haggard than she’d ever seen the office manager before, a stack of books in her arms, precariously topped by a cup of coffee, “can I ask a favor of you?” Edith stood and took the cup off the pile before disaster struck.

“Sure, what is it?” Opal looked around the office before speaking in a quick, quiet voice.

“Marjorie Weaver has decided that in light of Gregson’s death _she_ is the most qualified person to take his place in charge of columns.”

“She’s _what_?” Mrs. Weaver was Opal’s counterpart in the art department. A matronly and by all accounts a joyless woman. Edith was fairly certain if one were to draw up a hierarchy of who would be in charge after Gregson, Marjorie Weaver would fall somewhere before the caterers but after all the columnists and secretaries on the writing floor. “Does she even know who all the columnists are?” Let alone their specialties, deadlines, and preferred methods of submissions. In her time at the magazine Edith had only seen Weaver on her floor twice. Both times she had gone directly to Gregson’s office and left not long after.

“No! She was muttering something about ‘more family friendly’ when I caught her trying to get into Gregson’s office.”

“Uh-oh.” Opal nodded vigorously. 

“I was able to run her off, but I’m afraid to leave Gregson’s office unattended if she’s going to go all purity police.”

“How can I help?” Edith sat the cup of coffee on Opal’s desk, piled high with mountains and mountains of papers. It was a jarring difference from how orderly and neat it usually was.

“In addition to keeping Weaver’s nose out of where it doesn’t belong, I’m also responsible for finding Mr. Darling what he needs to manage the writing side of things, and all the columnists are submitting work to me (which means I’m chasing them down). I just can’t leave my desk.” Edith nodded sympathetically. “You’ve turned your piece in already, I was hoping I could delegate a few things to you, if you’re not too busy?”

“Delegate away.” Being useful gave her a high every time. It was a habit she knew she started when she was still trying to make her family love her. And when she was helpful, her parents did notice her – at least long enough to ask her to do something else. She’d given up on winning her family’s love and acceptance, but she could never walk away from someone who needed a hand. Opal sat the books down on the floor beside her desk and pulled a small notepad toward her. She quickly dashed off a short list and handed it over.

 _Contact re: final copy of article - Carmichael, Bathurst, Fellowes_ _(if it’s not in by tonight at 5 it won’t be in the magazine – ABSOLUTE LAST CALL)_

_Turnover Alice’s desk_

_Pick up evening papers_

“Turnover Alice’s desk?” Opal rolled her eyes over her coffee cup.

“Alice took all her personal items when they fired her, but we still like to make sure the desk itself is properly kitted out for the next girl – fresh blotter paper, a few pencils, empty the trash, that sort of thing. It’s not hard but Weaver is refusing to do it.”

“She probably hopes to lure you away from your post.” They shared a laugh. “I’ll turn Alice’s desk over first, come back to bum the phone book from you and threaten some writers, then pop out for the papers.” Plan established Opal fitted her glasses to her nose and Edith headed for the stairs.

Alice’s desk was easily identifiable, even to Edith, who’d only been on the art department floor her first day at _The Sketch._ Unlike the columnists who could submit their work from just about anywhere the artists on the lower floor had to do their work in the office, meaning that Alice’s desk was the only unoccupied space on the floor. Opal had been correct saying that Alice had taken anything personal with her - the desk had a task lamp, and blotter on the top, and nothing else. Edith sat in the rail back, wheeled chair and began opening drawers. Nothing in the bottom drawers, or the middle. In the upper right-hand drawer, there was a steno pad, blank, about a third of the pages missing, some more neatly removed than others. There were also two pens, a handful of graphite pencils, and two red pencils in the drawer. Edith shut it gently and drummed her fingers on the desktop. The desk was probably as prepared as it could be for a new occupant. The bin had even been emptied. She drummed her fingers again. There on the blotter paper was an indentation. Something had very clearly been written, quite firmly, on the page that had been above this one in the blotter. Edith leaned forward, in the light if she cocked her head a bit she could make out “Doct”. She ran a finger over the imprint.

Edith opened the drawer again and found the pencil with the longest tip. Carefully she began shading over the writing, slowly white voids began appearing amongst the grey.

_Doctor?_

_Que nswa yswater_

_L nd W2,_

_Mor_

Edith tore the page from the blotter pad and discreetly tucked it in her pocket. Alice refused to say how she got in contact with George Whitten. This was, perhaps, a clue.

Roger Darling was standing over Opal’s desk when Edith returned to the writing floor. They had their heads bent over something and were discussing it back and forth, quickly and quietly, Opal’s hand occasionally gesturing. Mr. Darling was a reasonably tall man (not as tall as _he_ was, but then few were), with a perfectly bald head, square jaw, and thick glasses with round, dark frames. A usually well-dressed man, his signature glen plaid double-breasted suit jacket was nowhere to be seen and the large knot of his navy tie was loose at his throat. The shirt was even starting to wrinkle, like he might not have gone home to change the night before. Rather than disturb the editor and his new right hand, Edith headed back to her desk. In the bottom drawer she kept a map and timetable of the underground as well as a recent London phonebook. The frottage wasn’t entirely clear, but she was still able to infer a few things. The address was definitely in London and most likely ‘Queensway’.

Using a magnifying glass always made her feel a bit like she was playing Sherlock Holmes, but the map in the phonebook was entirely too small. (Realistically, reading was getting a little difficult for her, unless she brought the text closer to her face, but she refused to entertain the idea of glasses until she was thirty. She’d lost all her pride over the years, but by God she still had her vanity). She searched the map until she found the road she was looking for – Queensway was one of the bigger thoroughfares running through the Bayswater area of Westminster (hence the _yswater_ in Alice’s note). The Royal Oak Station looked like it was the closest. Which meant, according to the map, a quick jaunt to the Farringdon station was necessary. She could quickly nip out and check the address, and then on the way back to the office pick up the evening papers. She checked her watch. It wasn’t even tea yet, despite feeling like she had been there the entire day and then some already.

 _Call the columnists now, if you want them to remotely have a sporting chance to submit in time._ She chastised herself. As much as she wanted to solve what happened to Alice, _The Sketch_ wouldn’t survive if it lost its editor _and_ went out for the month without three of its regular contributors. New plan: She’d first ring the people on her list, then nip out to Queensway, and then pick up the papers on her way back. Turning to look back at Opal’s desk she saw Roger nodding at something Opal said before straightening up and leaving. _Perfect timing._

“Opal, may I borrow-” The phone rang, cutting her off. Opal answered it with one hand, with the other she fished out a leather-bound rolodex planner. Before she handed it over, however, she scribbled a note on the back of a delivery slip. All the while speaking quite attentively and professionally to whomever was on the other end of the line.

 _Carmichael just turned her review in._ The only hint that Opal was juggling multiple tasks at once was the fact her usually impeccable handwriting was slightly crooked across the back of the slip. Edith caught her eye and nodded before taking the planner away to an unoccupied desk with a telephone. Miss Carmichael was the theatre critic for _The Sketch_. Her reviews covered everything from plays to operas and the ballet, as well as the occasional symphony concert, really whatever was new that month she went and saw. It meant she was delightfully up to date on entertainment in London, and she was extremely well versed in all the arts. Edith didn’t know her well but found her conversation absolutely delightful. They’d once lost an entire afternoon in talking about Isadora Duncan.

Mr. Bathurst was a charming man who wrote book reviews for the Magazine. Edith wasn’t really concerned about calling him about the deadline (although she was slightly worried something bad must have happened to make him so late in submitting, he was usually quite consistent in working in the office Monday – Wednesday). Mr. Fellowes on the other hand, Edith was dreading. He was an older gentleman, always perfectly polite but oh so arrogant. She, perhaps intentionally on Gregson’s part, was often put next to him as a foil. Fellowes consistently bemoaned change. He seemed to truly hate anything that seemed to make society more modern, and was constantly looking back to when ‘men were men, women were women, and people fulfilled the responsibilities of their classes’ (and by this he was usually decrying the tenant snubbing the landlord, saying nothing of the landlord’s abuses or failure to provide ‘paternalistic care’).[4]

Taking a deep breath Edith flipped the leather planner to ‘B’ and picked up the phone.

**#**

_The Moreau Spa & Turkish Bath_, Queensway was one of the main streets of Bayswater. A bustling thoroughfare there were many different shops, and particularly, several different restaurants. It was vibrant and cosmopolitan. But only one place stuck out to her amongst the storefronts. Madam Moreau’s bathhouse was in one of the newest buildings on the road. It had a lovely, gleaming white façade and monogramed gates at the door. _…the specialty items that helped me design and decorate my bathhouse to the standard I desired._ There was nothing, at least from the outside, to explain why Aunt Rosamund found Adélaïde Moreau so distasteful, unless, it was the fact the elaborate exterior décor was perhaps a bit… much. Edith turned and headed back to the tube station, turning the address over and over in her hands as well as her mind. 

_Mor_ the note had read at the bottom. It wasn’t absolutely conclusive but MOReau seemed pretty likely. _Just know, that if you find yourself in need, I am always available to help_.

 _If you find yourself in need_.

It had been such an odd way to phrase it, although at the time Edith had been too horrified at the woman’s suggestion that she and Gregson were loves (and that she’d wax herself _there_ just to please him) to pay any notice. If Madam Moreau had been willing to help her out if she were ever ‘in need’, then it would make sense that the offer would also stand for Alice. Poor Alice who really was ‘in need’, and nearly died because of it. Because of the introduction that Adélaïde Moreau made. Edith felt her hand clench into fists, crunching the paper into a tight ball in her palm. The question was, did she know that George Whitten was a butcher, or did she think him a competent doctor when she put Alice in contact with him?

_Perhaps I should take a spa day this week._

Edith carefully unfolded the top newspaper from the stack Billy had given her. _Go to the newsstand on the corner and ask for Billy, tell him the papers are for me and he’ll get you what you need._ Opal had told her, jotting down the newsstand’s general local on the same piece of blotter paper as Alice’s mystery address. Billy, as it turned out, was tall, blond twenty something with a lively Scottish accent. He’d been clearly disappointed when Edith, and not the auburn-haired office manageress came to retrieve the packet of papers he had set aside for her, but he covered it up as best he could with a cheeky smile and some pleasant flirting.

 **Michael Gregson and Wife Poisoned with Arsenic**. Front page news, albeit not the main story. Still, Edith found herself rooted to the spot in the middle of the bustling sidewalk reading and rereading the announcement. _The police have identified the cause of death for Michael Gregson, editor of_ The Sketch _Magazine, who was found dead in his Bloomsbury flat last week. Arsenic is the confirmed killer, it is also responsible for sickening Mrs. Elizabeth Gregson, who collapsed not long after the police arrived on the scene of her husband’s death. Mrs. Gregson will be fine and has been discharged from the hospital to recover at home. Police have declined to comment as to how the couple came to ingest this deadly poison._

Arsenic.

Someone had poisoned Michael Gregson and his wife with arsenic. Edith’s mind began to swirl… There was a not inconsequential amount of fine white powder in the bottom of her purse from Friday. She shook herself and quickly began walking again.

Once in the office she slapped the paper atop Opal’s desk, Gregson’s article facing up.

“Do you think Lori can identify some powder I found?”

* * *

[1] Christopher Kimball makes an argument for adding salt to mixed drinks (not a lot, like a quarter teaspoon of saline water) to cocktails to bring out flavors. I also read a shit ton of articles about shaking v. stirring a martini which basically got summed up by saying – personal preference trumps everything, shaking is quicker than stirring, shaking might ‘bruise’ the gin and make it bitter. Also, apparently the phrase ‘Shaken, not stirred’ isn’t used by James Bond (from whom I learned just about everything I know about martinis) until 1958, and it doesn’t appear on film until arguably the best Bond film ever, Goldfinger (1964). So, executive decision on Edith’s martini preferences, since Bond isn’t around yet to put shaken martinis into everyone’s mind, she’s going to stir her martini.

[2] F.A.N.Y. = First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, a British all-female independent registered charity, not actually affiliated with the Military, first founded in 1907. They originally trained on horseback and were sent out onto the battlefield to retrieve wounded that way. By World War I they were driving ambulances and running hospitals, primarily in Belgium and France. There are a few books written by former members, including _A Nurse at War: Nursing Adventures in France._ I vaguely remember reading for an undergraduate Western Civ class.

On the subject of women drivers there’s a 2011 documentary about Carl and Bertha Benz and Bertha’s long-distance car trip called _The Car is Born_ , it’s written and directed by Ulli Kampelmann. Also, in 2011 there was a German TV movie made about the Benzes called _Karl & Bertha._ And, of course when you go to Stuttgart, Germany and check out the Mercedes Benz museum (because why else would you go to Stuttgart if not to see Mercedes and Porsche stuff?) the guide will also tell you _all about_ Mrs. Benz.

[3] If the term ‘French waxing’ isn’t familiar to you, perhaps the phrase ‘landing strip bikini wax’ would be a helpful visual.

[4] I’m just borrowing Fellowes' name and do not mean to suggest he is anything less than a perfectly lovely man. It seemed fitting if I was also going to borrow Carmichael and Bathurst for names to use his as well. I will admit that I’m a bit salty over some of his character decisions/writing choices (*cough* Anthony Strallan, killing Sybil, etc. etc. *cough*). But do not take this as I'm dragging Julian Fellowes, please don't sue.


	7. VI. 29 October – 1 November 1920 [Friday – Monday]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion and casual use of drugs and alcohol, plus some questionable knowledge of tea.

Edith curled her legs under her, once again taking up residence in Opal and Lori’s worn leather chair. With Lori’s shifts and Opal’s new workload and Rosamund’s new interest in Edith’s social circle the earliest the three could get together was Friday night, a week after Michael’s death. On the coffee table between them was a plate of sandwiches, Edith’s clutch, and a bottle of red Edith ‘borrowed’ from Rosamund’s cellar (she’d told Mead which made it ok). The wine glasses were wrong for red, but Edith couldn’t care less. Compared to the meal she’d endured Tuesday every moment in this cozy living room was a delight. The sandwiches were slathered with an olive tapenade and loaded with thinly sliced prosciutto, salami, and a few other meats, plus lots of provolone and mozzarella. It was chewy and briny and perfect for the autumnal evening.

“So, tell me again how you got this ‘powder’ in your purse?” Lori asked between bites. Edith hurriedly chewed and swallowed.

“When I saw Gregson on the floor, I might’ve tossed it out of my hand when I rushed to see if he was still alive. It must’ve broken something and when I got back home, I found about a centimeter of white powder in my clutch and a bunch of glass. The papers said it was arsenic poisoning.” She sipped her wine.

“Yeah, more on that came through today while you were out.” Opal said from behind her hand, her mouth full. Granny would be horrified by the act, but Edith longed for the freedom. “The police found the arsenic source; it was in the sugar bowl. They’ve taken Gregson’s maid in for questioning. It’s likely they’ll just arrest her.”

“Do you think she did it?” She leaned forward.

“I wouldn’t blame her if she did, but I don’t know. I’ve not met her. But Gregson liked girls, working in his home I can imagine he’d try to take advantage. And Lord knows, the man takes a reprehensible amount of sugar in his tea. If she was going to do it, it was as good a way as any, especially since Mrs. Gregson wasn’t supposed to be home.”

“If the arsenic was in the sugar bowl, what’s in Edith’s purse?” Three pairs of eyes, two brown, one grey, all turned to look at the clutch. Lori leaned forward and dumped the contents of the bag out onto her now empty plate. Edith had already removed the compact and money she had stored in there, but had left the glass and powder, which now spilled out onto the plate. Carefully she shifted the shards of glass off to one side, separating it from the white powder.

“Well, it doesn’t smell like tooth powder or flour.” She rubbed her forefinger and thumb together. “And the texture isn’t quite right for talcum powder or confectioner’s sugar.”

“Do you think it’s-” Opal began as Lori arched a brow and _licked_ the powder off her fingers.

“Yep.”

“What…Did you just _eat_ that?! We don’t know what it is. It could have been rat poison!”

“It could have been, but it’s not.” Lori stuck her finger back in the powder and began rubbing it on her gums. “It’s cocaine.”

“Cocaine?!” Opal exclaimed with delight, while Edith was extremely confused.

“The naughtiest of salts.” Lori smiled wolfishly, offering the dish to Opal, who licked her finger and helped herself. And then to Edith, who hesitated. “Have a tipple.” She shook the dish.

“Oh, why not.” Edith imitated Opal. The sensation of the powder on her gums was tingly and a bit odd. But also, a bit zesty. Lori sat the dish down on the coffee table again.

“How did Gregson get this much cocaine?” Opal mused, leaning back against the sofa and sipping her wine. “So much that he just had it out where you could get it in your clutch.” Edith leaned forward and took the dish again, examining the shards that had fallen out with the cocaine. Some of the pieces were mere slivers, hardly visible at all. Others were a bit larger; she could see some lovely blue paint on delicate porcelain. Now that there wasn’t a dead body in front of her, and cops everywhere, she could actually process what had been going on around her that night. She recalled picking the purse up out of the wreckage of a blue and white oriental box. It matched some of the décor in Michael’s office. Edith could perfectly picture the two gorgeous vases; he’d told her they were from Indonesia one her second visit.

“To be fair, I did smash a box with my clutch…”

“All right, he had so much cocaine that he kept it in a decorative box by the door. Still, what you have in your bag alone is probably what a normal person has access to.”

They switched from wine to whiskey as the conversation drifted.

“I think I know how Alice was put in contact with George Whitten.” Edith’s mind was spinning brightly. She was energetic _and_ mellow.

“Oh?” Lori was standing at the bar cart, cutting a long, lean line in her rich grey trousers and blousy silk top.

“When I was turning over Alice’s desk, she had the address for the Moreau Spa & Turkish Bath. I know the woman who owns it – Adélaïde Moreau, she’s the longtime _inamorata_ of my Uncle-in-law’s brother. She was at dinner this week, and she came up to me when the sexes separated. It was an interesting conversation. She started by telling me all about how she just hired a woman who specialized in French waxing…”

“Oo!” Opal squealed, sending Lori a _look._

“and then transitioned into how much Gregson liked women with French waxes.”

“Ew!”

“She thought I was Gregson’s mistress-”

“There’s a lot of that going around.” Lori handed her a brandy.

“Apparently Mrs. Gregson, herself, told Madam Moreau that I was Gregson’s mistress. And she took it upon herself to approach me to say that if I ever ‘found myself in need’ I should come to her and she would ‘help’ me.”

“Obviously if she’s willing to assist you, a hypothetical mistress, she must’ve been the one to help Alice, his actual mistress.” Opal finished, sipping her vermouth on the rocks.

“I think,” Lori announced, gesturing grandly with her cigarette and scotch. “That we need to schedule a spa day.”

**#**

The Moreau Spa was as decadent inside as it was outside. A resplendent statue of a nude goddess, painted green, holding a lamp like a moon greeted them at the entry. Marble floors and walls with mosaic flowers crawling up pillars and around the ceiling and down walls. Edith and Lori headed for the changing room while Opal went to discreetly find the office.

She had grown up with sisters, with nannies and later Anna helping her dress. Her mother had occasionally bathed her, and one memorable evening before her wedding even Grandma Martha ambushed her in the bath to talk about marital relations. She was young. She was ostensibly pretty. She shouldn’t feel uncomfortable undressing in a room full of women. She’d spent her life being naked in front of other women. But while Lori could just pull her blouse over her head and stash it in small provided locker, she found herself hesitating. The Moreau spa was a nude spa, open to women only Monday, Wednesday, Friday and men Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Edith had known this when, more than slightly tipsy, they had looked up the Spa’s hours and planned to take Monday afternoon off to visit. She’d even given it passing thought, when she’d laid in bed all day Saturday because she stopped being able to bounce back from drinking a bottle of wine and … several brandies like she used to. But now, in the moment, the prospect of a nude spa was entirely a different beast.

She took a deep breath and began to unbutton her day dress.

**#**

Madam Moreau’s office was behind the front desk, accessible by a short hallway off the main passage, nearly invisible behind an ornate beaded curtain. Nearly, being the operative word. While Lori and Edith headed for the changing rooms like the average patron was supposed to, Opal walked more slowly, and quietly slipped behind the beaded curtain while the attendants weren’t looking. She calmly, confidently walked down the hall. It was always easiest, she found, to sneak when one was calm and confident – pretending you were meant to be there, doing whatever it was you were doing. Actively trying to sneak one got panicked or looked out of place. Carrying your head high and walking with purpose it was easy for people to see what they wanted to see, rather than something out of place or questionable. It was how she managed to get contraband into school in her youth, how she managed to get out of her parents’ house while she was grounded and wander all around the village without anyone questioning her.

At the end of the hall looked like the laundry room and a space where the other ‘back of house’ activities could be conducted. To the right were bathrooms and to the left the door marked ‘Office’. Opal glanced around her before trying the knob.

It was unlocked.

She wasn’t entirely certain what she was expecting to find in the office. Maybe a rolodex with a card under B for ‘Butcher George’. The plan hadn’t entirely been thought through when they decided Friday night that Opal should toss Moreau’s office for information. Or rather, it had been thought through, but it had been thought through by three drunks. Opal wasn’t entirely sure of what she was expecting in the office, but Madam Moreau herself wasn’t it. Which was a complete oversight on her part.

It was a Monday afternoon.

_Last time we ever plan a break-in drunk. Buggering hell!_

“What are you doing here?” Edith had said Adélaïde Moreau was better experienced than described, and she had been right. The French woman was strikingly beautiful, her long red hair bound up in an elaborate style. She was swathed in a gorgeous peacock blue dress and matching sheer duster that on anyone else should have looked ridiculously overdone, and yet for Madam Moreau, anything else would have looked utterly wrong.

“I-um- I’m Opal, ma’m, and a friend of Edith’s, uh- Lady Edith’s.” She hopped the stuttering made her sound shy rather than flustered and too distracted to function. _You really are too Sapphic to live, aren’t you?_

“Yes, and?”

“She, um, told me that if I ever _found myself in need_ that you could help me. And well, I erm, need some help.” She gingerly walked into the office, placing a hand on her stomach in case the inuendo wasn’t abundantly clear on its own.

“I would say congratulations, but something strikes me that this isn’t a blessed event.” Moreau replied coldly. “I’m not sure why Lady Edith thought I could do to help.”

“Please,” She pressed, doing her best to look sad and scared. “She said that you offered to help her if she were ever in need. She’s not, but I am.” Moreau robbed the bridge of her nose, her elbows resting on the lacquered top of her ornate desk dramatically.

“At the risk of sounding cold, that invitation to Lady Edith wasn’t an open one. I had thought since she was Michael Gregson’s mistress-”

“But she wasn’t!” Opal interrupted; Edith had been worried the rumor of her alleged affair with Gregson would stick. “She wasn’t; I was.” It came out of her mouth before her brain had a moment to think about it. And, if she had, she’d have never said it in the first place. Michael Gregson was most certainly not her type. She preferred her lovers dark haired…and women. But, even looking past that… Michael Gregson, as a person, was not remotely attractive to her. He had been too arrogant, too condescending, too confident in his own mediocre abilities for her to like. And then, of course, there was the fact he thought monogamy and fidelity were insurance companies.

“You. _You_ were his mistress.” Moreau’s head had shot up and she was not studying her with a decidedly critical eye.

“I was. I was his secretary, you see, and one thing led to another…” The woman abruptly stood up from her desk, running a hand over her face in clear frustration and annoyance.

“Of course, of course you were!” She groaned into her hands before swearing a vivid streak in French that Opal only understood about a third of. Eventually she calmed herself down, taking several deep breaths before lighting a slender cigarette and drinking the smoke in like water. Exhaling a slightly lopsided ring, Moreau spoke again.

“All right, this is what we’re going to do.” She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a note pad and a key. “You’re going to go to this address, Thursday at 10 o’clock, wearing a red rose pinned to your lapel. A man will approach you, and you’ll give him a package from me, and he’ll take you where you can get the ‘help’ you need.” She spoke as she wrote, purple fountain pen gliding across the pad. She ripped the page off and shook the page sharply before handing it over and then taking the key and hurrying out of the office. Opal made a show of putting the address in her handbag before rushing after her to see where she went. She stuck her head out the office door in time to see Madam Moreau’s duster snap around the corner as she entered the laundry. Opal weighed her options as quickly she could, she could try to follow her to see what she was doing, but if she got caught there would be no way to explain her impertinent curiosity.

The decision was made for her as Moreau rounded the corner. Opal quickly ducked back into the office. Madam Moreau returned with a box, about the size of her hand, rectangular and neatly wrapped in brown butcher’s paper.

“Don’t open it. Give this to the man who meets you.” She gave her a stern look as she handed the box over. “ _Comprendre_?” Opal gave her best, most convincing nod. “Now, this is very important, do you know of any other women who had a relationship with Gregson?”

“N…No…?” Opal wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be heartbroken at the suggestion or not. She also legitimately didn’t know if there were any more women. She knew of some of his indiscretions, she’d had to cover for a few in her time (‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Gregson, He’s just gone out to the printers’), but she’d not known about Alice and that had almost been under her nose. Who knew if there were more Gregson bastards running around out there?

“No. You’re certain?” Moreau pressed.

“As certain as I can be. But Michael always thought that monogamy was something clinical and communicable.” The Frenchwoman let out a bark of unamused laughter.

“That is the perfect way to describe it.”

“You did _what_?” They returned back to Bread street to compare notes after their spa experience. Their giggles about Lori’s wax versus Edith’s rubdown was short lived once Opal rejoined them.

“I had to come up with something _fast_! We were drunk as shit when we made that plan, we forgot it was _Monday_ – she was in her office. What else was I supposed to do?” Opal threw her hands up.

“Now you’ve got a date with the _bastard_ that ripped Alice up!” Lori’s voice was as angry as it was fearful.

“I don’t have to go. We’ve certainly established that Moreau was the one who set up Alice with Butcher George.”

“What’s in the box she gave you, I wonder?” The brown parcel was sitting on the coffee table, it was wrapped discretely – so discretely that Edith couldn’t help but wonder what was disguised inside it.

Opal carefully sliced through the tape with a delicate hand and a letter opener. The plain brown paper folded away to reveal a plain brown box with a tight lid. Opal removed that as well. Inside the box was a bag of waxy paper. And inside _that_ was cocaine. Just a box full of cocaine, as long and as wide as their palm and at least three inches high.

“Holy shit!” Lori exclaimed, forgetting momentarily how worried she had been.

“There’s no way I can stand him up, now.” Opal groaned, pushing the box away from her.

“What?!”

“Moreau gave me this to give to Whitten – so we can assume he’ll be expecting it – and me. If I don’t show _someone_ will come looking for _this_.”

“Damnit!” Edith put her head in her hands. _This isn’t a novel_, she could hear Detective Fox in her head, _civilians are not allowed to play detective. Even the aristocrats_. Swearing was satisfying, and about the only thing she could do in the situation, and so she swore again. “FUCK!”

The force of that swear, ripping from her chest like salvation, jogged an idea…well half of an idea from her brain.

“You’re not pregnant, are you Opal?” Opal’s bark of laughter was surprising, breaking the tension in the room. Opal laughed hard. She laughed loud and she laughed for a long time. Lori joined in, swiping mirthful tears from her eyes.

“…I’ll take that as a no.”

“No. I’m not pregnant.” Opal confirmed.

“So…if Whitten took you, he’d be attempting abortion and committing assault.”

“You’re _not_ suggesting that she go through with this, are you?” Lori snapped.

“Not alone!” she protested. “Opal goes to meet Whitten, the police follow her, she leads us to Whitten and the evidence necessary to put him behind bars.”

“You want to use her as bait?!” Lori exclaimed; her face thunderous.

“Darling, I believe this is _my_ choice.” Opal’s tone was frosty.

“You can’t be serious!” The pair exchanged a heated look before Lori subtly acquiesced.

“She’ll have police following her - she’ll be safe.”

“More than that, I’ll be there too.”

**#**

Edith smoothed her hand over the front of her textured tan coat and tried to not think of the last time she stood before this door. Mrs. Gregson had been released from the hospital, having recovered tolerably from the poison in her tea. She was staying in the Bloomsbury flat, according to Opal. Paying her respects to the widow of her boss was the appropriate thing to do. And if, in the processes she learned more about how Gregson came to be in possession of an entire box of cocaine, or if the maid really did do it then so be it. If she managed to convince Mrs. Gregson that she wasn’t Michael’s mistress and got her to stop telling people that she was, all the better. But really, this was a sympathy visit.

Edith had contemplated wearing, if not black, then something more appropriately somber. But she had been afraid that to dress in mourning colors would only reinforce in Mrs. Gregson this idea of impropriety between her and Michael. So instead she opted for something colorful yet demure – a day dress of coral and peach under her textured tan coat with floral embroidery at the collar, cuffs, and hem with coordinating mauve leather gloves and white cloche hat with a matching mauve ribbon.[1] Modest, yes. In mourning, absolutely not.

The lady of the house (flat) opened the door herself, a few moments after Edith’s firmly polite knock. It was to be expected, considering the Gregson’s maid was currently being held for questioning. All the same, it was odd to see a well-bred woman answer her own door. Mary would sooner pretend that she didn’t understand hinges than answer a knock at Downton. Mrs. Gregson was looking significantly better than the last time Edith saw her. Her skin was rosier than before, and without the sickly sheen of sweat as her body tried to fight off the toxins in her system. She was far calmer as well, now that her husband wasn’t lying dead before her. Mrs. Elizabeth Gregson was a lovely woman, with delicate features (save a slight cleft in her chin, which was just imperfect enough to make her real rather than a woman carved from marble and brought to life by Venus). Her expression was coolly polite and visibly confused.

“Mrs. Gregson, I’ve come to express my condolences.” Her hazel green-gold eyes widened but she stepped back to allow her into the flat. Edith followed her in, her eyes resting on the dark walnut floor of the foyer. _…_ _where Michael Gregson was lying, unmoving on his side, a puddle of sick arching out before him._

She shook herself and took a deep breath before continuing on into the living room. It was still a beautiful, vivid shade of peacock blue, particularly striking when compared to the richly textured but monochromatic foyer.

“I was making tea. Would you like a cup?” Her voice was lovely, soft and feminine like the rest of her. Standing straight she was still a few inches shorter than Edith herself, her honey-red hair was swept back from her face in a loose, romantic chignon.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll have to prepare it myself since…” She bit her lip, an elegant tremor running through her. _Since the maid was arrested for my husband’s murder._ Edith could finish the sentence on her own.

“Would you like some assistance?” Mrs. Patmore had taught her and Sybil how to brew tea as well as a few simple kitchen dishes during the war. Baking bread with her sister was perhaps her fondest memory of Sybil. They’d wound up wearing more flour than had gone in the loaf, but it had been such a happy, satisfying afternoon. Together, working side by side at the kitchen island, just chatting and laughing…

“Oh, no thank you.” Mrs. Gregson demurred. “I won’t be a moment, please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of the chartreuse leather chairs. Edith settled herself as her hostess retreated into the flat.

Alone in the parlor Edith had two options, sit with her thoughts – currently swirling and tumbling over memories of Michael’s lifeless body or explore the room. She’d never been particularly keen to be alone with her thoughts even when they weren’t full of murder… At the far end of the room were large windows overlooking the street below, a window seat built below them, the entire area draped in gauzy white fabric with some fine gold needle work running through. The fireplace was marble and anchored the room, over it was a large mirror, and on either side low shelves extended the remainder of the walls. One was more of a bar than a bookcase, on the other side several books about travel were propped up by a variety of art pieces, presumably from the places discussed. Above the shelves some _very_ modern still lifes hung. The rug, she remembered from before, was as vivid and adapt at tying the room together as ever. It was a geometric pattern, clearly handmade, and nothing at all like any rug she had ever seen at Downton. Clearly Mrs. Gregson’s father’s business was as responsible for the décor Michael’s flat as it was providing the wealth necessary to keeping the magazine running.

Mrs. Gregson returned eventually, bearing a silver tea tray laden with a sterling silver tea pot, milk and sugar and two colorful glass teacups. She placed the unique set on the coffee table and then settled herself daintily on the chaise lounge opposite Edith’s chair.

“Do you take milk in your tea, Lady Edith?”

“Yes, please, just a splash.” If tea started out black, she only wanted enough milk to fade the color to brunette. (Cousin Patrick had always taken his tea with so much milk it was fairly khaki, a habit Major Gordon seemed to have gotten out of).[2]

“Sugar?” Mrs. Gregson offered, gesturing to the decorative sugar bowl. It, like the teapot and milk carafe were ornately engraved with an intricate, floral pattern.

“No. No, thank you.” sweetened tea always reminded her of when she was sick. Mrs. Gregson nodded and finished pouring her cup before turning to her own. She added neither milk, nor sugar to the cup, quickly filling it to the brim before setting the pot aside and turning her attention to Edith once again.

“It was good of you to come.” Mrs. Gregson said softly as she sipped her tea.

“Mr. Gregson was my editor at _The Sketch_ , he was very supportive of my writing and very good to me.” Edith said. It was reasonably true, although in light of his personal life, it was not clear that his support was by far more calculated than honest admiration. His friendship had an agenda. “He was a good boss, but I assure you, Mrs. Gregson, he was never anything more than _just a friend_.” _So please stop telling people that I was his mistress,_ was what she really wanted to say. Mrs. Gregson continued her interest in her tea.

“You can understand why I might have thought otherwise.” She finally said, her tone and wording self-consciously polite. Edith took a deep breath. Tea with a side of humiliation wasn’t foreign to her, but that didn’t make it any more palatable. However, to apologize – and to hopefully stop Mrs. Gregson from telling more people that she was Michael’s mistress – humiliation was necessary.

“I can. And I must apologize for giving you that impression.” She sipped her tea. It was odd drinking the hot liquid from a clear glass tumbler, even as insulated as it was. It still felt too much like drinking out of a juice glass, something completely unacceptable. (Mr. Carson might be feeling unexplained pain even now as she used the foreign tea set).

“I suffered a…. disappointment.” Understatement of the century. The man she’d trusted her heart and was prepared to pledge her life to had sprinted away from the alter as fast as _his_ long legs would carry him. _I can’t do this._ So good, so noble, so wonderful that _he_ blindsided her in front of all of their friends and family. “…a disappointment a few months ago which left me more vulnerable than I care to admit, even to myself. I was so caught up in my feelings that I never once stopped _to think_. Your husband invited me to a party and I just blithely followed his lead. I was so flattered…so desperate for his attentions…. any of his attention that I would have compromised myself and not even noticed.” She was laying it on a bit thick perhaps, but not really. There was so much truth in her words that she felt shame flush in her stomach and across the back of her neck. Mrs. Gregson sat her tea aside and gave her a look full of heartbreaking sympathy. Edith wished the chair would swallow her up. She’d not come for pity. She’d come for many reasons, but not pity.

“I was foolish and naïve but not Mr. Gregson’s mistress.” She tried to steer the conversation back on a path she was willing to go down. “I just wanted you to know that. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry for adding to your grief, however unintentionally.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Gregson eventually spoke, “for your candor. I should apologize as well, for making such an accusation. I don’t know what came over me…”

“Well, given the circumstances. As you said, it very much had that look…”

“You’re right, but I should have never doubted Michael. He’s never once given me reason to doubt his affections or our marriage. We’ve had our ups and downs, but I know that he’s always loved me. Finding his body, it all became so muddled in my head. I loved him so much, you see.”

_He’s never one given me reason to doubt… I love him so much, you see…_ Edith was grateful for the tea to hide behind as she digested Mrs. Gregson’s words. Opal talked about multiple affairs. Madam Moreau also implied that she would not have been the first to have a relationship with Gregson. Either he was extremely good at keeping his extra-marital activities hidden from his wife (possibly, considering he was away from her most of the week. Although why he would invite her to his flat if he knew his wife was going to be in town – or if there was a chance, she might arrive unexpectedly…) or perhaps she was willfully blind to her husband’s infidelity. Growing up with dogs she knew that some animals adopted the tactic ‘if I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist’. Perhaps she spent her life resolutely looking at the wall rather than the chewed-up throw pillow.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” She said for want of anything else to say. Mrs. Gregson nodded, still watching her with pity and distrust.

“Thank you.” In some ways she fit perfectly in this parlor, and in others she stood out painfully. Everything around them was colorful and vibrant. She was a literal black spot against the bright blue walls and light chaise lounge. And yet, her jacket had a high mandarin collar and embroidered all over with white and silver flowers. Considering her father’s work Edith had no doubts the silk came directly from China.

For a moment they just sat there, both hiding in their tea.

“You have a lovely home, I noticed before…in spite of it all. This rug is very…unique.”

“Thank you. It’s Andean. My father imports goods from all over the world.”

“Mr. Gregson’s office always had such interesting knick-knacks. He said he never travelled much; this explains it.” A few more swallows and she could politely make her escape.

“Father’s imports.” Mrs. Gregson offered a weak smile. “His house is full of such things, he’s more than happy to share the pieces with us. The house already is more of a curiosity cabinet than a home. Every room a different theme.”

Edith left the flat a few minutes later, tea finished and awkward conversation exhausted. She was halfway to Pony Street when she stopped dead.

Mrs. Gregson had taken her tea black.

**#**

“The housekeeper says Mrs. Gregson always took her tea black and unsweetened m’lady.” Mrs. Pyke confirmed for her. She had looked as skeptical as a housekeeper was allowed to look when asked to do something by a member of the family when Edith had asked her to call the Carter-Nelson household and find out how Mrs. Elizabeth Gregson took her tea.

“Thank you ever so much, Mrs. Pyke.”

“Will that be all, my Lady?” Mrs. Pyke asked. She had a shock of white hair which she always wore in a crisp bun. Her face, however, always remained youthful, in complete contrast to her snowy hair. She had worked at Bond House for over ten years now and in that time, Edith had never exactly pinned down how old she was. She could, conceivably, be an older woman with a youthful face, _or_ a rather young woman who had the misfortune of going grey early. In either case, she was as efficient at her job as Mrs. Hughes but without the Scotswoman’s motherly warmth.

“Does my Aunt have any particular plans for supper tonight?”

“Particular plans, no. I believe cook is making Quiche Lorraine.”

“Wonderful, I will be in my room until then, should I be needed.” What she really needed was time to think through everything she had just learned.

Edith returned to her room and settled herself at her desk, her dark eyes falling on the slips of paper pinned to the wall above it. She’d been adding information to the slips of paper about Michael’s death and Alice’s abortion as she learned new information.

_Arsenic hidden in sugar bowl, didn’t die because of lower dosage – less sugar in her tea._ Her own handwriting reminded her. As far as the police knew the Gregsons were poisoned because someone laced their sugar bowl with arsenic. Michael died because he took a lot of sugar in his tea, Mrs. Gregson was only made ill because she didn’t take much sugar at all.

In fact, it turned out, she didn’t take _any_ sugar in her tea. Which then begged the question, how did Mrs. Gregson get poisoned?

* * *

[1] [I was attempting to describe this outfit](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/47/02/95/4702956720d29e3527e16eb3a384afd8.jpg), (which I think is from 3x8) with a few minor adjustments.

[2] My partner and I both drink our tea black, so if the milk and sugar requests/practices of anyone seem confusing, this would be why. I'm an American so I'm much more used to using tea in colonial protest than in a cup, and the Dude is German so he's just weird all together.   
I’m also up in the air about if I wanted P. Gordon to be Patrick or not.


	8. VII. 4 November 1920 [Thursday]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I do not own Downton Abbey, any characters or situations related to it. If you recognize it, it’s probably not mine. The mistakes, however – those are all mine.
> 
> Some discussion of previous abortions, as well as a brief description of an attempted abortion. The beginning/end of the description is marked with asterisks (**) if one wishes to skip it.

Butcher George was late. Opal knew it was more than ridiculous to be put out that the man responsible for the mutilation and death of several women wasn’t prompt, but she was. It was terribly rude, it also meant that she had been waiting for going on fifteen minutes. Opal’s father had always said that five minutes early was on time, “on time” was late, and actual tardiness would have earned her a hiding. Being early was so ingrained in her that she even made sure to show up early to her own would-be abortion. She patted the package of cocaine, carefully rewrapped and tucked into her shoulder bag, and resisted the urge to check the clock _again._

She had to hand it to Madam Moreau, sending her to the Saint Pancras train station was a stroke of genius. It was a perfect place for a clandestine meeting. Everyday hundreds of people milled about the station and hotel. There were any number of directions to come from and exit via. People waiting wasn’t uncommon, people looking for other people expected. There were so many people that it was easy to disappear, to be invisible. Considering Edith’s description of George Whitten and his crony was only so good, Opal did feel particularly blind.

She checked her rose again. Since she couldn’t spot George, she had to wait for him to find her and her rose. Lori had pinned it to her breast with extra care and about five more pins than strictly necessary.

_So you’re secure._ She’d said, worry tinting her words, putting the slight tremor in her hands. Opal knew she wasn’t really worried about the flower falling off. They’d stayed up half the night trying to figure out if there was a way for her to defend herself as she went into the meeting. A dagger in the garter was out – she didn’t want to risk George finding it. Lori had offered her her brother’s service revolver (after the war Danny hadn’t wanted to see another weapon again so he gave the gun to Lori for “home protection”) but Opal had never learned to shoot. In the end the best they came up with was a brick in her purse and an obscene number of pins in her corsage.

The one advantage Saint Pancras had relative to a less busy rendezvous point was the ample parking. Opal looked out onto the street, her eyes easily finding Lori as she leaned against Edith’s aunt’s car. Opal had always recognized _Lady_ Edith wasn’t like her and Lori (her obvious heterosexuality aside).[1] While she was always unfailingly polite and very consciously tried not to be snobby the difference of peerage still shone through. Her aunt’s car, for instance, was a cream-colored Rolls-Royce. It was the most luxurious thing she’d ever been in. And Edith had just borrowed it without a second thought. Now Lori was leaning against the door, one foot propped on the running board against the door and Opal wanted to yell at her to get her grimy foot off the sparkling clean paint.[2] Then there was the coat Edith had given her to wear. It was a bright blue velvet duster, clearly for evening wear, but the most colorful, distinct thing any of them owned. Edith insisted she wear the coat so that it would be easier to keep an eye on her in the crowd. Opal was confident the thing cost a month’s rent, the label inside was couture.

She peaked at the clock tower. 10:09. Any moment now, surely. She then returned to watching Lori watch her. Edith, at least, was pretending to read a newspaper, as if she was waiting to pick someone up from the station. Admittedly, she’d not turned a page the entire time they had been waiting, but it was an attempt to blend in (as much as a pretty girl in a luxury car could). The driver’s window was rolled down and occasionally she could see Lori turn her dark head slightly to say something to Edith before quickly snapping her attention back forward to her. Normally she’d find her darling’s zealous attention patronizing but there was nothing normal about this situation.

A man in a grey overcoat and dark fedora strode with purpose up to Edith’s window. There was something in his walk that screamed _police officer_. However, before she could decide if it was his gate or the military precision with which he’d shined his shoes that was giving off such a clear “officer of the law” impression a hoarse voice addressed her from her elbow.

“Excuse me miss, you wouldn’t happen to be a friend of Madam Moreau, would you?”

**#**

If Lori didn’t stop twitching Edith was going to slap her. She could understand the woman’s anxiety – she shared it, Butcher George was now properly late and the train station was busier than their meager surveillance skills could cope with (she was grateful Opal had acquiesced to the duster, it was painfully out of place – an evening coat at ten in the morning, but that and its rich color was what made it, and her, so much easier to spot). Edith was very sympathetic to Lori’s anxiety, but all of her fidgeting was starting to rock the car.

“Lori, breathe!” _For the love of God hold still!_

“How can I when they’re late?”

“Shocking: the bad guys aren’t prompt. Terribly rude of them.” Lori’s bark of laughter was utterly humorless.

“Lady Edith,” Detective Fox’s deep voice interrupted whatever Lori’s reply would have been. She turned from her friend to find the Detective leaning against her wing mirror looking disgruntled. “Constable Flowers relayed your message to me – something about a gift wrapped up in a bow? If this farcical wait is what you meant, so help me, I will arrest you for wasting police time.”

“I assure you, Detective Fox it is not. However not only is Butcher George a criminal he’s also inexcusably tardy.”

“Butch-” Fox’s voice raised in anger of its own accord before self-consciously dropping lower, “-er George? Just what are you playing at, Lady Edith? I thought I was quite clear that this was a police matter. You have no right to interfere.” Despite being a Fox, the detective growled like a bear.

“You’ll forgive me, inspector, but if we wait for the police to settle the matter, it’ll be the year two thousand twenty before Whitten is behind bars.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear before, _this is not a game_. It’s not some cheap mystery novel, you are _not-_ ”

“Holy shit! Holy shit, Eeds someone’s talking to her!” Lori was literally pounding on the car door for her attention.

“What is she talking about?” Fox made an excellent door, his navy silk tie (embroidered with little foxes, _how very droll_ ) was right at eye level.

“We arranged a meeting with Butcher George.” She said, trying to be as polite as possible while craning her neck to see around him. Unfortunately, he had very broad shoulders.

“You did _what?!_ ”

“She’s not pregnant so she can’t be procuring an abortion.” She hastily added. “But we are going to get you some evidence so you can _finally_ convict him!”

“You’re _meddling._ ”

“He’s taking her to a van, Edie, he’s taking her to a van – look LOOK!” Fox wasn’t moving and she couldn’t see anything that was going on.

“What direction are they going?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Lori that only works if we established where twelve is!” Lori didn’t respond, instead she pushed past Fox and leaned her entire upper body into the car, pointing through the window screen. In a beat Opal appeared, a literal bolt of blue, crossing the street, her arm forcibly linked with a medium sized, muscularly built man. Edith recognized his flat cap and corduroy jacket, although she’d have to see his hands to be absolutely certain.

Coming the other way was a van, the side painted with C. Graham & Son where the windows should have been. The man opened the back door when the van stopped and leveraged Opal in.

“Follow that van!” Lori screamed almost directly in her ear. She then threw herself out of the cabin to open the door.

“What is going on?!”

“Get in!” Lori fairly threw the Detective Inspector into the back of the car before hopping in beside him. “Drive!”

“This is kidnapping.” Fox grumbled, sitting up and straightening his hat.

“Shut up!” Lori snapped, her hand pounding on the seat beside Edith. “Let's go! Let's go!”

The man shut the doors behind Opal and then jogged around the van and hopped into the passenger seat as Edith started the Rolls. The van continued on its way.

“Drive!”

“Lori, don't distract the driver.”

“Then fucking drive!” Edith threw the car into gear and quickly checked for oncoming cars before sending up a quick prayer and making a sharp U-turn into traffic.[3] A flurry of car horns sounded, but she couldn’t hear them over Detective Fox bellowing:

“Lady Edith! That was so ille-”

“Don’t distract the driver.” Lori snapped, she had for the moment stopped battering the seatback. The quick turn across traffic had put them two cars behind the van, although without any element of stealth or surprise. Edith hoped that whoever was driving wasn’t paying too close attention to what was in their rearview.

The van turned left, and she followed. It continued right and Edith followed. It went all the way out to Camden Market and then circled back south and she followed. Intersections were becoming the absolute bane of her existence. She’d already jumped two, earning her howls from Fox (He was going to write her a massive driving ticket, the likes of which had yet been seen in London, she was sure of it). Stopping not only slowed her down but the last time she actually obeyed an intersection another car slipped between her and the van. That had Lori howling. There were now three cars between her and the back of the van, it was far enough away that it was only really visible because it was taller than the cars in front of her (two Renaults and a Ford). Edith was certain that she would never hear quiet again.

“Can’t this hunk of junk go any faster?!” Lori had draped herself over so far over the back of the front seats that her arms were braced on the dashboard, her sharp eyes never leaving the van.

“Hunk of junk?! This is a _Rolls-Royce_!” Fox sounded deeply insulted on the car’s behalf.

“The goal is to _follow_ not overtake, Lori!”

“Damnit that’s my _flat mate!_ ” She could see in the rearview how she kicked her leg for emphasis, narrowly missing smashing Fox in the face.

“And whose idea was it to put her in danger in the first place?”

“Hers!” Both she and Lori answered. Edith had responded more matter-of-factly whereas Lori’s answer was pained and proud. Nurse Stanton was clearly a woman who protected her loved ones with everything she had. Edith was immensely envious of that, she’d so rarely experienced that kind of devotion, even from her own family. Her flare of disappointment had to be brief, however, as the car in front of her turned off and she hurried to close the gap before anyone else would think to get between herself and the van.

The van didn’t bother using an indicator and Edith almost missed its sharp turn. She loved driving ( _he’d_ inspired that in her. During the war touring about the country lanes had helped her feel closer to him. When _he_ left her, she refused to let _him_ take that from her too), unfortunately driving in London was far from the relaxing, liberating thing she loved. In fact, it was becoming downright stressful.

“Only because Moreau caught her searching her office!” Lori groaned. She hadn’t accepted Opal’s decision so much as been forced to acquiesce. 

“Doing a spot of breaking and entering were you?”

“The door was open.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

“Uh, yeah?” Lori turned her head to shoot a look at Detective Fox, and then whipped her head back forward, her long, dark plait slapping Edith in the face.

“And what were you hoping to find? And who is Moreau?” 

“Madam Moreau, Adélaïde Moreau, runs a spa. She was the one who put Alice in touch with Whitten in the first place. Alice was having an affair with Gregson.” They were finally on a straight street that didn’t seem to have any intersections for the foreseeable future. There was still traffic to contend with, so she couldn’t put her foot down, but for the moment she didn’t have to be absolutely so focused on where the van was. She took advantage of this to chance a glance in the rearview mirror. Lori was still pivoting on her pelvis trying to be in the front seat while still technically being in the backseat. Although as she checked her mirror, she could see Detective Fox grab one of Lori’s flailing legs and pull her into a seated position. She landed with an _Oomph_.

“Hey!”

As Lori half-playfully knocked Fox’s hat off his head in retaliation a thought occurred to Edith.

“We assume that Alice knew that Madam Moreau would help her because Gregson told her, yeah?”

“You said that Moreau and Gregson’s wife were friends, so yeah.”

“Moreau gave Opal a bunch of cocaine to pay Whitten with, and Gregson also had cocaine at his flat-”

“He what? How do you know that?!” Fox demanded, now he was leaning over the front seat.

“You wouldn’t have known about it either if my purse hadn’t broken that thing on his side table, he was keeping it all in. There was enough white powder in my clutch when I got home to go skiing.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Lori’s hands grab Fox by the shoulder and pull him in to the backseat.

“Don’t distract the driver.” She grumbled.

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

“Hey!”

“CHILDREN!” The van turned and Edith was back needing all of her attention on the road and not the nurse and detective now squabbling in the back seat.

The van trundled onto Cheapside, the roads vaguely familiar now after her visits to Opal and Lori’s flat. The roads also considerably narrower and often one-way only, the degree of difficulty offsetting any advantage of memory. C. Graham & Son turned down lanes then back up others, completely negating the original direction. Perhaps the driver had figured out that the Rolls-Royce behind them had been there the entire time, or they were doing their best to further scare and disorient Opal, alone in the windowless back. Edith really hoped there was something in the back to sit on, now that she was directly behind the van it was plain to see that its suspension was horrible. They could save her from Butcher George’s blade, but Opal’s teeth might have already rattled out of her head.

Eventually the van pulled up to the back door of a bakery. The green back door of a bakery on the lane off Bread Street.

“Green door! Green door!” Lori had launched herself across the car (and Detective Fox’s lap) to press her face against the window as Edith slowly rolled passed the van, now parked. “Alice said she remembered a green door and smelling bread, this is where that bastard cut her up too! Let me out!” Would that she could. The lane was narrow and one-way with absolutely no where to park, aside from directly behind a business (although most of those spaces were full with their respective vehicles). There was also a truck behind her and, possibly another car behind it. There was nowhere to park, the middle of the street aside and there was no way she was going to leave her aunt’s Rolls unattended in the middle of a Cheapside lane, even if it did just mean marketplace.

“Oh no you don’t!” Fox exclaimed shoving Lori off his lap and holding her at arm’s length. “You and Lady Edith have broken enough traffic laws for one day.”

“Let me park, Lori, it won’t take a moment once I find a place.”

“You want me to _wait a moment_ while that Butcher takes Opal up to his lair?!” Edith could feel the intense, angry gaze of Lori’s steely eyes on the back of her neck as she continued to drive past the bakery and the van.

“Lori if you hop out of the moving car you’ll fall, probably get runover and not only will it cause a scene and possibly endanger Opal you’ll also be dead. If I stop the car, it’ll get rear-ended, cause a scene and my Aunt will murder me. We are no use to Opal if we’re dead or if we let Butcher George know that we’re on to him.” She turned the corner and found herself on another narrow one-way street with no parking. She had sounded so confident trying to reason with Lori, but that optimism was fading fast.

Another corner and they were now a full block away from the bakery. However, there was finally a place to park. Edith pulled to the side of the road as quickly as she could without hopping the curb or hitting the other car (an older model Napier). Lori was out of the Rolls the moment the wheels stopped turning and had already taken off running by the time Edith had put the vehicle in park. By the time she’d turned off the engine Detective Fox had also alighted and was hard on Lori’s heels. Edith sighed deeply, locked the car, and tossed the keys in her purse before tearing after her companions. By the first corner she was deeply grateful to the universe for intervening when she dressed that morning. She had almost chosen a pair of two-inch t-straps to wear instead of the slightly less fashionable but flat boots. She wasn’t keeping up particularly well as it was, but if she’d been in heels there was no way she’d be able to do more than a brisk walk. As it was, she was properly running down the street, her skirt hiked higher than was remotely ladylike.

_Bloody Nora is Lori actually half gazelle?!_

Delores Stanton had to be part gazelle. But Edith had done well for herself all the same, she reached the green door of the bakery with enough time to see the very tail of Fox’s overcoat whip around the door frame at the top of the stairs. She took the stairs two at a time as all hell broke loose above her. There was screaming, there was _a lot_ of swearing, and there was a very heavy sounding * _thunk_ * before there was relative quiet.

Edith skidded to a halt in the doorway to find: medical implements scattered all over the floor, Opal having clearly hit the man who had picked her up from the train station in the face with her purse (blood was streaming from his nose), and both Fox _and_ Lori pointing guns at Butcher George and his accomplice.

“What are _you_ doing with a gun? Is that thing even registered?!” Fox’s eyes were on Butcher George even if all of his attention wasn’t.

“It is!” Lori snapped back. “It was a gift from my brother, and before you ask, I’m a _very good_ shot.”

“Lady Edith,” Detective Fox’s eyes flickered to her in the doorway. “Please go and call the station, tell the desk sergeant that I’m placing Whitten and an accomplice under arrest and require assistance.” She turned back to the stairs.

The next several hours were a blur.

The bakery allowed her to use their telephone with little complaint (her sweaty appearance and being visibly out of breath probably helped circumvent questions). By the time she returned upstairs Opal had taken Fox’s handcuffs and had cuffed Whitten’s right wrist to his assistant’s left and then tied them both to chairs using the tie from Fox’s coat, his and Whitten’s necktie. The police arrived not long after, four constables, including the now familiar Flowers filing into the room to properly cuff and take away the two men. While two of the four officers took Whitten away the remaining two began processing the room. One was taking photographs; Flowers started with Opal and began taking statements.

****** For a brief moment Edith considered lying when Constable Flowers came to take her statement, his manner an amusing combination of completely confident and authoritative and slightly terrified of the fact that she was a _Lady._ She’d gone and done explicitly what Detective Fox had told her (on more than on occasion) not to do. She’d roped her friends into helping her and in the end, Opal had been held down while a man she knew had maimed and killed other women lifted her skirt over her head. (she’d managed to kick him in the chest before he got any farther than that and was able to use the confusion to grab her purse (with the brick in it) to then smash the other man’s face in). She’d been the ringleader and taken her friends right down the garden path with her. It was a miracle everyone was alright. On the other hand, George Whitten was arrested and would be behind bars for the foreseeable future. Without their intervention she knew that he would still be walking free, plying his bloody trade and leaving a string of bodies behind him while the police only did the bare minimum. She and Opal and Lori had gotten justice for Alice. ******

She thought about lying to Flowers about what she was doing above the bakery. But she knew that no matter how dumb she played the truth would come out. She had, after all, sort of abducted Detective Fox over the course of the plan. Even if she didn’t tell the truth, he _most certainly_ would. The best she could hope for was that her report wouldn’t go further than the station. If she was called to testify at an abortionist’s trial her father would kill her – if Granny didn’t get to her first. And no one would ever find her body.

Giving her statement played out much as it had at the hospital: She narrated what happened, Flowers took notes. The he’d ask a follow up question and push and push and push on the details until he’d wrung every drop of blood from the stone. But, eventually, it ended. Opal had been interviewed first and allowed to go home, Lori demanding to be seen second so that she could accompany her. Given the circumstances she couldn’t have agreed more. She was half tempted to head directly over after the interview and see how Opal was, but intuition stopped her. She’d phone later that evening.

“Walk you to your car, my Lady?” She had been a little surprised that Detective Fox had not gone with Butcher George and his accomplice to the police station to oversee the booking personally. He’d remained behind, taking Opal’s statement while Flowers took Lori’s, and now he was waiting by the stair for her. She gave him an appraising look, he’d replaced the belt of his overcoat but left off his tie, the first button of his shirt now undone. It made him look younger somehow. Softer. Slightly less terrifyingly severe.

“Thank you, inspector.” They left the building in awkward silence.

“What you did today was exceedingly dangerous, not to mention illegal.” She’d been expecting this lecture since Lori pulled him into the back of the car. Nay, before that, when she’d called the station earlier that morning. “I told you not to get involved, and there was a reason for that. Your Miss Lawson was extremely lucky, I have no doubt that she wouldn’t have been hurt badly if it wasn’t for her reflexes and the…brick in her purse.” Edith had thought her shoulder bag had looked off, she’d been carrying a brick of cocaine _and_ a brick of mud. He continued:

“Meddling in police affairs is none of your business, the law is not something to play pretend with, to bend and skirt depending on the mood. There are procedures, there are officers, there are rules to be followed.” They were at her car now, the Rolls had been fine parked on this side street, thankfully, not even a ding. “But I am grateful that you ignored me today, all the same.”

“I’m sorry?” She’d not experienced a 180 that dramatic since her wedding day.

“The law requires me to follow rules and procedure and it means that I’ve spent more time looking over the mutilated bodies of young woman-” He closed his mouth abruptly, his jaw flexing as he bit back words that he wanted to say. Angry words, she could imagine. He was not as unfeeling as she had previously accused. “I’m glad Whitten is finally behind bars. And in this specific instance I’m grateful for your assistance in putting him there. If you ever, _ever_ do that again, _I will not_ hesitate to arrest you. Understood?” His eyes were smiling, even if his thin mouth was set in a straight line.

“Understood.” She tried not to smile as she nodded and extended her hand. He looked down at it and slipped a ticket into her palm. He then tipped his hat and walked away.

“Fifteen pounds!?”

* * *

[1] The terms heterosexual and homosexual were first coined in 1869 and then reintroduced around 1890. “Heterosexuality” first appeared in the Merriam-Webster’s dictionary in 1923. The term grew in popular usage from there. So, I’m perhaps a bit anachronistic but not as off as I could be.

[2] There’s a nifty page on the Downton Abbey wiki that identifies [all the vehicles](https://downtonabbey.fandom.com/wiki/Vehicles_of_Downton_Abbey?file=RosamundsRollsRoyceS4E1.png) seen in the series, which is a lot of fun if you’re a bit of a car nerd like me. It’s also handy if you want to make sure you get your details right for a fic.

[3] I have absolutely no idea about the roads around Saint Pancras (it’s been over a decade since I was anywhere near London), let alone what traffic would be like in the 1920s. Also, the whole driving/sitting on the left has me all kinds of confused.


	9. VIII. 7 November 1920 [Sunday]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong language, attempted murder, callous discussion of abortion and murder, more casual drug references.

In the end she didn’t call Opal, Opal called her.

“A Miss Lawson on the telephone for you, m’lady.”

“Opal! How are you feeling?” She was absolutely delighted to hear the manageress on the other end of the line.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. No harm done, although Lori won’t be letting me out of her sight for a while yet.” There was a grumble somewhere in Opal’s flat that sounded like _damn straight._

“I can’t say that I blame her; this morning was harrowing.”

“Don’t you take her side!” Their ease with one another, the familiarity, security, teasing, the care and concern mixed through it. Edith had only ever seen such a combination in her parents’ marriage.

Oh.

_Oh._

She should have realized sooner. Their flat only had one bedroom.

_Darling… Love…_

God, even amongst her friends she was still the only single one.

“—Edith?” She’d been so distracted she lost the entire plot of what Opal had been saying.

“I’m sorry Opal, my attention was diverted. You were saying?” She sighed dramatically, affectionately over the line.

“Alice had to find out about Madam Moreau somehow, yeah? We assume Gregson told her, right?”

“Yes, she said that she and Mrs. Gregson were close.”

“Right. So, Gregson sent Alice to Moreau for help getting an abortion. Moreau also had a brick of cocaine that she could just go and get from the back and give me to pay Whitten with when she secured mine…”

“That was _a lot_ of cocaine.”

“You remember who else had _a lot_ of cocaine just lying about?”

“Michael!” Suddenly the lack of books in his office was the least odd, off putting thing about him.

“Lori and I have been thinking, either Moreau and the Gregsons were _really_ good friends or...”

“Do you think he was a customer or a business partner?” There was generosity with one’s friends, but Michael had had enough cocaine to kill an elephant at his flat.

“What would he bring to the table?” Opal scoffed, “He was apparently using the cocaine _and_ making Moreau take care of his mistresses.”

“I doubt he’d bring _anything_ to a partnership let alone anything that would make up for having to coordinate abortions for him.” Opal gasped.

“She killed him. Moreau killed Gregson!” The epiphany was clear in her voice.

“That makes sense!” The more she learned of the man the more she could understand why someone might commit such a foul act.

There was muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Lori says the statue at the entrance of the spa was Paris green.”

“Oh-kay?”

“Paris green pigment is made from arsenic.” Lori’s voice broke in on the line.

“Oh.” Although if it was green, how the hell did it pass in the sugar bowl?

“Arsenic trioxide itself is white, it’s mixed with copper to give the pigment the color.” It was as if Lori had read her mind.

“Oh!”

“Yeah!”

“I think we need to get into the back of Moreau’s spa!” Opal exclaimed.

“What?!”

From the other end of the line Edith could hear Lori yelling “NO!”[1]

**#**

“What on earth are you wearing?” Edith looked down at her skirt. It had been the one she wore the first time she tried to visit Opal’s flat, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Miss Robinson had managed to get the blood out of it (Edith had no idea how, aside from ritual magic). Edith would never be able to wear the skirt like normal again, even if it was blood free – she could still see it there. It was perfect for a break-in, however. At least to her, obviously Lori and Opal had other opinions. The pair was still laughing.

“What’s wrong with it?” Aunt Rosamund had tickets to a concert with dinner to follow, so she had the car. Thus Edith, Lori, and Opal had agreed to rendezvous at the closest tube station to the spa. The Bread Street duo had arrived first and had been easy to find on the mostly deserted platform that was expected on a Sunday at ten o’clock.

“Don’t you own trousers?” Lori asked. She had worn trousers every time Edith had seen her, with the exception of their first meeting when she’d been in her nursing uniform. This evening was no different, she wore a pair of wide leg, grey tweed trousers with a black high neck sweater and a black wool jacket. Even Opal, who usually favored drop waisted day dresses in soft, flattering shades, was wearing a pair of green-brown jodhpurs. Edith looked at her skirt. She’d not expected to go bicycling, let alone horseback riding, nor did she anticipate ever driving a tractor again and so her own Jodhpurs and work jacket had been left at Downton.

“I-” she began, Lori slapped her on the back.

“Now we know what to get you for Christmas.” She joked, ushering the group out onto the street and towards The Moreau Spa & Turkish Bath.

They had planned this excursion at work Friday, sitting at Opal’s desk eating cold chicken sandwiches and pretending to talk about the gossip pages anytime someone walked by. The more they had discussed it the more it made sense that Moreau had killed Gregson – she had the motive certainly. Gregson was abusing her friendship and her (illegal) business by using her cocaine and making her arrange and play for (with more cocaine) abortions for at least one of his mistresses (Alice). Moreau and Mrs. Gregson were also friends, killing a friend’s unfaithful husband was a relatable motive. It would be easy for Moreau to have the opportunity, she and Gregson knew each other and lived in London. Paying him a social visit and lacing his sugar bowl with arsenic would be fairly easy to do and unlikely to raise suspicion. They had no proof of this meeting at the moment unfortunately. Opal, who kept Gregson’s personal and professional calendars had no scheduled visits from Moreau. However, she did not know all of his meetings, especially if it was arranged for a weekend or a spur of the moment sort of visit.

Means. What they needed to find at the spa was Moreau’s means of poisoning Gregson. Even if the statues and fixtures in the spa were Paris green, that did not mean that Moreau herself had access to the pigment or the deadly poison in it. The décor could have easily been made elsewhere and installed. They needed to find arsenic at the spa (ideally alongside Moreau’s datebook with an entry dated from Thursday reading ‘Poison Gregson’).

The front door of the spa was too conspicuous. But getting around to the back to find a side door, a service entrance, or any other way in wasn’t easy. Other than beside the front door there were no windows on the ground floor. Halfway down the alley there was also a fence. Given how much taller it was than Lori (the tallest of them) it had to be at least seven feet high.

“Well, shit.” Lori sighed, checking the expanse of chain-link for a lock, or any way through it that didn’t require climbing. “Think there will be a gate down the other side of the alley?”

“Or we just go over the fence and save time.” Opal replied putting her foot in the diamond and setting her hands. The Auburn-haired woman was at the top of the fence, swinging her leg over in about four steps.

“Have you ever climbed a fence?” Lori looked her long skirt skeptically.

“No.” Edith wasn’t entirely sure there were fences at Downton. There were some on the tenants’ farms, of course, but around Downton itself, other than some built for a steeplechase and those were lower and wooden, there were none.

“Right, well, you go next and we’ll help you.” Lori nodded toward Opal.

“Put your toe in the diamond, step up, plant your other toe. Use your hands to guide you, don’t over think it.” Opal instructed as Edith approached the fence. _Don’t over think it._ _Ha!_ Opal had climbed the fence as easily as if she were climbing stairs. She flexed her fingers and squared her shoulders. _Right._

She’d never climbed a fence, but it wasn’t particularly hard. Except for her skirt. Twice she managed to step on the skirt as she placed her foot, tugging it further and further down her hips. Of course, that was nothing compared to having to straddle the top of the fence to get over it. The skirt caught, staying hooked on the top of the chain-link even as she started climbing down the other side.

_Don’t waste yourself on me. He_ ’d said. _I can’t let you throw away your life like this._ Edith was sure when _he_ was encouraging her to live as _he_ left her in Downton church this was exactly what _he_ was imagining. Her skirt stuck on the top of a chain fence she’d just climbed, raised over her head. She could feel the breeze which meant that everyone else could also see her knickers. Lori let out a cheeky whistle.

“Fabulous lingerie, darling. Almost makes up for not knowing how to dress for a break-in.” She joked. They were a pair from her trousseau. Rosamund had bought them specifically for her honeymoon. They were easy to get off not just for her husband’s benefit, but also because the plan had been to travel lightly through Italy, the only staff being Stewart to assist _him_ and serve as driver. Cousin Isobel had also contributed to the Honeymoon packing, helping her pick out several simple dresses which would require little to no assistance to wear. Those had made wonderful work outfits in the end.

Between climbing back to the top and untangling her skirt or simply jumping and hoping for the best Edith chose the latter. Scaling a fence was pretty straight forward, but it was starting to hurt her hands. The skirt only offered a little resistance as she jumped the last four feet or so to the ground, the tug of the fabric before it gave way causing her to stumble, but not fall. A few inches had been taken out of the hem of her slip, where it had also been caught on the fence. Her skirt, however, had sustained more serious damage. The rip bisected the front of the skirt from its hem all the way up to the middle of her thigh, splitting it like a medieval lady’s overskirt.

“Lovely.” Opal’s tone was sardonic. Edith shrugged. She’d not wanted to keep the skirt anyway.

“You!” They had been so distracted by their plan, the fence, and Edith’s underwear that neither she nor Opal, nor Lori had given any thought to the building that shared the alley with the spa. The one that had a side door – which was now open – onto that alley.

“Gotta go!” Lori was off like a shot, the man giving chase after her.

“Will she be alright?” Opal nodded brightly.

“Lori’s brother is an endurance runner, won several races in school. She used to train with him. Unless that man can do better than a 4:30 split she’ll be fine.”

The backdoor was, unsurprisingly, locked and other than a transom window there was no other way inside on the ground floor.

“There’s no way in,” Edith groaned, “Unless we go through the window.” Opal knelt by the door, examining the lock.

“What are you doing?” The auburn-haired woman was pulling hair pins out of her natural curls. She unfolded one until it was nearly straight, the other she bent at a ninety-degree angle.

“Lori and her family are really close. Her father was kind and supportive and when he died when she was twelve, she, her brother, and mother actually mourned him. My father locked me in my room after I flowered thinking it’d keep me from becoming _a slut_. All it did teach me was how to lie, pick locks, and climb trellises.”

God, she had thought that her father was an unsympathetic prig. Papa had threatened to lock Sybil in her room a few times, however never actually did. It was a bridge too far, even for him, as much as he ranted and raved and liked his control.

“I am sorry.” Opal made a noncommittal sound.

The door flew open.

“Oh, wow! You’re good.”

**#**

“Lady Edith, what a surprise.” Standing in the doorway was Adélaïde Moreau, her dramatic red hair swept up in a black silk turban. Beside her was Mrs. Gregson, looking nothing like Edith had seen before. She was standing tall, her spine like steel as she looked down her nose at her and Opal, still kneeling on the ground.

They were pulled into the back of the spa by their hair.

“I really am surprised, Lady I-was-never-Michael’s-mistress Edith,” Mrs. Gregson’s voice was cold. “Working with Michael’s actual mistress.”

“You are getting around awfully good considering your appointment.” Moreau taunted Opal, looking her up and down as she dragged her through the hallway. “I didn’t expect you to be alive after visiting George, let alone trying to break into my spa.”

“It’s no matter, we’ll just take care of it ourselves.”

“What _are_ you talking about?” Opal was spitting nails; she could hear her hair coming out of her roots as she struggled against Moreau’s hold. Mrs. Gregson’s grip was as surprising as her new, cold personality. Edith could feel her own short locks starting to give way every time she turned her head. Patrick used to tug her braids when they were children. She hadn’t liked it then. She _hated_ it now.

“We’re going to kill you, that’s what we’re talking about. We had hoped Whitten had done that for us like he did the other girls, until that man of his got a conscious.” All the demur sighing, the soft feminine fragility had been an act. Mrs. Gregson, the real Mrs. Gregson was nothing like that broken doll she had played for the cops, the well to do widow she’d been when Edith visited. She was more than cold, she was callous.

“Those other girls, they didn’t just die because Whitten’s a butcher rather than a doctor?” Detective Fox had mentioned there had been several abortion related deaths. He was so tired of looking at mutilated young women, he’d said. He had thought – she had thought – it was just one shady back alley abortionist, not calculated murder.

“Oh, Georgie’s a butcher alright, he’s our butcher.” There was a horrifying smile in her words. Edith didn’t have to see her mouth to know that Moreau’s blood red lips were twisted into the slash of a smile.

“All those girls were also Michael’s mistresses?!” How did he find the time?

“Michael couldn’t keep it in his pants for longer than five minutes. He was a goddamn disgrace. He used me, he used stupid little girls like _her._ ” Mrs. Gregson spat in Opal’s direction. “He spent money like water. My money! My family’s money. He _ruined_ us. He ruined ME! I have him the _best_ years of my life and he ruined _me._ ” There was a small part of Edith that sympathized with Mrs. Gregson. Few things were truly unforgivable, but infidelity was pretty close. (Part of her wished _he’d_ had an affair rather than abandoning her in pain and tears. It would be so much easier to hate _him_ then, rather than constantly worrying if _he_ was alright. If _he_ was eating enough, sleeping regularly.)

“Strip.” Moreau’s voice broke into Mrs. Gregson’s rant.

“WHAT?” The women had marched them by their hair through the back hall to the saunas.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Make me.” Opal snarled. The petite woman had no sense of self-preservation it seemed. Edith wasn’t sure if she admired that as bravery or stupidity.

“My friends most certainly will.” From behind Moreau three broad men and an extremely small, menacing looking woman materialized. The woman and one of the men had guns. “Now strip!” Mrs. Gregson let go of Edith’s hair, throwing her to the ground.

“Chop, chop! All of it off.”

“Fuck you!” Opal spat, although her fingers were working the buttons of her blouse. The small, evil woman brandished her gun at her, and Edith began untying her shoes.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mrs. Gregson replied. “I can’t wait to see the headlines tomorrow: **Earl’s Daughter Found Dead in Sapphic Sauna Tryst**. That might manage to disgrace your family more than your failed wedding!” Edith knew she shouldn’t be surprised. Even if her parents hadn’t placed an announcement for her wedding in the London papers it had still been in the Yorkshire ones (there was only so much snubbing one could do against one own child before it was noticeable). She’d told Mrs. Gregson herself she’d had a disappointment earlier in the year. The woman wasn’t stupid, and it hadn’t been hard to put two and two together. The blow still hurt though.

“God you’re a bitch.” Opal broke the ringing in her ears, the sting of the taunt. Also her fear. She was going to die. She was going to die naked in front of Opal, a supposed friend of the family who’d dined with her and her Aunt just last week, and a bunch of strangers. She was going to die. There was no point in being polite. They said curiosity killed the cat, she was going to go to her grave (her sauna) sated at least. She kicked off her shoes and stripped off her jacket.

“How’d you get the cocaine?”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

“A cunt?” Opal offered; she was toeing off her brogues. Edith had heard that question so many times in her life. The rich and status obsessed who made up a solid portion of her family’s set constantly thinking that the accident of their birth meant they were better than everyone else. Beyond the petty rules of other people. _If_ she survived this, she would take with her forever Opal Lawson’s half naked comeback to that awful question and it would bring her enough joy and amusement that she would be able to survive the bore’s company for the rest of any night.

“You’re father’s in imports.” Edith only managed not to laugh because of the murderous look on Mrs. Gregson’s face. She wanted to delay her inevitable death as much as possible. Edith wasn’t entirely sure if Gregson wouldn’t just snap and take the gun from one of Moreau’s cronies and shoot them where they stood if they weren’t careful. Mrs. Gregson had been Miss Carter-Nelson, daughter of Patrick Carter-Nelson, who presided over an impressive import business.

“I see the aristocratic inbreeding hasn’t robbed you entirely of a brain. We import from all over the world. Indonesia, the Andes. It was so easy to bring the cocaine in along with the rugs and the porcelain, the wool and the silk. And we needed to after Michael got through with the checkbook. Throwing good money after bad on investments, not to speak of the gambling. The _girls_.”

“No wonder you killed him.” Everything was making sense, the pieces falling together as her clothes fell off. “It was bad enough that Michael was unfaithful, but then he spent all your legal money. _And then_ he started using your source of illegal money as well, and not casually either, I imagine.” He’d kept the cocaine in a decorative box by the door, like it was the last thing he did before he left each day. Keys, wallet, line of cocaine, off to work!

“He was never more than arms reach from it at any time. The foyer, the bedroom, his office! In his pocket! It was so hard to establish a drug ring when the product kept disappearing up his nose!”

“So you poisoned him.” Opal was also putting two and two together. “Popped in for a surprise visit and poisoned him.”

“I was tempted to put it in his cocaine, I thought it’d be more poetic, but in the end, I didn’t want to taint the stock. Michael always did put an unfortunate amount of sugar in his tea.”

“You put just enough poisoned sugar in your own tea to throw suspicion to the maid.” The woman had deliberately poisoned herself to make sure the police arrested an innocent woman.

“Michael was fucking her too – in our bed no less! Otherwise I’d almost feel guilty.” Good Lord, there wasn’t _anyone_ Michael Gregson wasn’t having an affair with. He was attractive but he wasn’t that handsome or charming.

“How do you fit into all this?” Opal asked Moreau, she was down to her brassiere and silk knickers.

“Does Uncle Peregrine know that you’re distributing more than just massages here?” Moreau threw a towel at her now that she was naked, laughing bitterly.

“Perry? God no. He might be hung like a horse but he’s dumb as a rock. I only keep him around for the sex and how fabulously wealthy he is. Your Aunt’s an absolute bore, by the way. So transparently hypocritical – living for the drama and the gossip and then flaunting her outrage and ‘moral superiority’. I do feel for you, _Edie Darling_ , at her mercies to find you a husband. I think I’m rather doing you a favor.” Now wrapped in towels, Moreau and one of her massive lackeys shoved her and Opal into the sauna. “You’ll never have to endure another ghastly diner party again!” Laughing she shut and locked the door, Mrs. Gregson waving through the window.

**#**

David sighed heavily as he sat down at his desk. His shift had technically ended hours ago, however the paperwork on his desk had not. At any given time, the reports on his desk bred like rabbits. Since Whitten’s arrest three days ago, the papers had become more pressing and more complicated.

Whitten’s assistant, James Otis, had cracked the moment he was alone. David had barely looked at him and he started confessing. Otis had been wounded in the war – his lungs, hand, and mind suffering. Returning to work as a carpenter was impossible. He was no longer dexterous enough for the tools and the sawdust chocked him. He’d drifted between jobs and self-medicating his nightmares until he’d met Whitten. George Whitten had given him a job and looked after his health. For a time, Otis had even been happy helping Whitten. Apparently, the doctor wasn’t a butchering incompetent with rusty tools. For two years, according to Otis, Whitten performed abortions – cleanly, safely, and with dignity. He occasionally provided contraception and even offered home visits to make sure his patients recovered.

That had changed suddenly, and for Otis, without warning. Whitten had explained the first death as an accident and Otis had believed him. By the time Miss Waters came to them Otis had lost almost all his faith in Whitten. He’d broke ranks and drug Alice to a cab hoping he could still save her. Whitten had only watched.

George Whitten had eventually confessed as well. He’d held out longer than James Otis but not by much. Whitten’s confession was what was keeping Fox in his office long after he should have returned to his boarding house.

Whitten’s confession had followed the broad strokes of Otis’ story. He’d lost his license for performing abortions at his practice, he’d escaped police charges only because one of the abortions he’d performed was for the board director’s daughter. He’d kept a sideline going in abortions and contraceptives for almost two years.

“Butcher George” had been born almost a year ago. His daughter, Colleen, had fallen in with a fast crowd and was deep in debt to Adélaïde Moreau, addicted to cocaine. The options had been clear, either Moreau would collect on Colleen’s debt and get her pound of flesh or he could work off the debt himself. It had never been a choice.

Elizabeth Gregson had asked him to kill a woman and make it look like an accident – a botched abortion. They had asked him to dispose of six women this way, not counting the woman who’d led to his arrest. Blackmail and drug addiction had motivated him, not incompetence nor bloodlust.

It was a neat little story, placing all of the malicious intent on someone else. He wasn’t a serial killer; he was also a victim. Following up on his extraordinary claims was going to require delicacy. Adélaïde Moreau had some wealthy friends. Elizabeth Gregson’s father was Patrick Carter-Nelson, wealthy _and_ influential. He was a long-time, big money donor to various police charities, there was a specific education scholarship in the widows and orphans’ fund in his name. He was a member of the same club as the police commissioner and three judges.

Fox sipped his tea and grimaced. He’d gotten up and poured himself a cuppa mostly to stretch his legs and clear his head so that he might refocus on the paperwork. Unfortunately, the constables on the night shift didn’t know how to brew a proper cup of tea. Flowers hadn’t either until David had forcibly taught him. He sipped the brew again. Another lesson was in order. (One of his earliest memories was of his mother carefully brewing a pot of tea, making sure every detail was just so. He’d worked in the family teashop after school from the time he was ten until he went to police academy eight years later. He was fairly certain the ability to make a good cup of tea was what got him his first promotion in the force).

The phone rang before he could assemble the constables for their lesson.

“Possible break-in reported at the Moreau spa and Turkish Bathhouse, sir.” Constable Waters announced, poking his curly head into his office. David glanced at the confession before him. Amongst his allegations Whitten claimed Moreau’s spa was the distribution center of the alleged drug ring. Stopping a break-in was perfect probable cause to investigate the spa for any evidence to verify Whitten’s story.

“We best get over there then.” The lecture on how not to over-brew and scald the tea would have to wait.

**#**

The heat was on high, humidity full blast. It was so much hotter than it had been when they had visited the week before. She’d been trapped all of two minutes and already she was wanting to die. _Don’t panic._ She repeated to herself. Panic would only make it worse. _Don’t panic._ Taking a deep breath, it felt like she was drowning.

“Plan. Plan. We need a plan.” Opal muttered, running her hands through her hair. “Ok! Plan!” She clapped her hands together. “Do you have hair pins? I need two.” Edith ran her hand through her own hair, pulling out two grips. She’d cut it all off to avoid wasting so much time styling it. No buns, no braids, no hour with Anna stabbing her in the head.

“Perfect!” Opal immediately set to work improvising her second set of lockpicks.

A minute passed, then two. The steam was so thick she could barely breath, even seeing was difficult, the air shimmering. Even her short hair was sticking to her forehead and back of her neck. Everything was sweaty. Her _wrists_ were sweating. She didn’t know wrists could sweat.

“I can’t see a damn thing!” Opal swore, pushing her sweat damp hair from her face in frustration. The humidity in the room made everything hazy.

“Could we break the glass?” The door had a round porthole window onto the hall. Edith looked around the small sauna room. It was lined with wooden benches built into the wall. There was nothing else in the small space. Not even a bough of eucalyptus. Nothing that could be used as a fan, nothing that could break the glass. Opal stood up.

“We’re about to become really good friends.” She joked before clamping the hair pins in her mouth and taking off her towel. She wrapped the fabric around her elbow as best she could and then slammed the padded joint directly into the glass with a loud, firm thud.

“Ow! Shit, that hurt!” the glass pane in the door had done more damage to Opal than she had done to it. Edith had adverted her eyes when more than Opal’s strong back came into view. Her eyes fell on the benches and then the floor. There was a grate under the bench, steam billowing from it like a dragon. If they couldn’t release any steam, perhaps they could keep it out to begin with.

She dropped to her knees. The grate was ornate and decorative and held in place by two screws. It wasn’t easy but using her fingernails and one of the grips she was able to loosen the screws and pop the grate off. Under the bench was a pipe and a valve, steam streaming from the opening in a constant jet, thick enough to see and painfully hot. Even touching the edge of the grate had scalded her fingertips (she had probably lost the ridges on her right index finger and thumb). There was no way she could get near the pipe with bare skin.

“I think we’re about to become _best friends._ ” Edith took her towel off before she could change her mind. The valve was stiff, and still hot, even with the towel around it. With all the torque she could muster Edith could only close the valve three-quarters of the way. The steam now trickling out.

“Fuck!” If ever there was a time to swear. It didn’t help in the slightest, but it was cathartic. Wrapping the towel around the valve did block most of the remaining trickle. So, resigned to nudity Edith did her best to tie the fabric in place.

“Can you see any better?” She’d either guaranteed that she’d die naked or given them a slight chance of surviving, mostly naked. It was now entirely up to Opal and two hair pins. She had, quite literally, nothing else to give.

**#**

Despite being sober as they crafted this plan, they had still managed to overlook some important details. Like what to do if they got separated. Lori had eventually lost her pursuer, after about ten blocks. She had to credit his persistence; however, he was no match for her head start or her endurance. She’d sprinted all the way past the tube station and doubled back. Hoping to disappear into the crowd. It wasn’t a large crowd, it was a Sunday night after all, but it was big enough. She’d hidden in a secluded corner until she was confident the coast was clear.

Which had begged the question – what now? There was no rendezvous point, no contingency plan. Opal had spent her teenage years breaking out of her house and that had only prepared them so much for a break- _in._ She could wait at the tube station or she could go back, hope that her pursuer wasn’t standing guard and see if she could reunite with Opal and Edith. Remaining was safer, but she would go mad not knowing.

Fingers crossed Lori headed back toward the spa.

**#**

The caller had reported the potential break-in at the back door of the spa. The alley was clear and clean. Nothing out of place. Not even a piece of litter.

Except the door. There was a hairpin still sticking out of the keyhole.

Inside the spa was as black as the grave. Whoever had reported the break-in wasn’t there. No one was there.

“Sir, there’s a light.” At the end of one of the long side hallways there was a light shining, not very big but _bright_ compared to the darkness. Vaguely he could see movement, the light dimming occasionally as someone or something passed in front of it. Squaring his shoulders and cocking his gun David followed the constable toward the light.

**#**

“It’s _soooo_ hot.” Opal moaned, banging her head against the door. Edith harmonized. She could feel herself wilting – melting – she was pretty sure she was actually melting. Her head was pounding, like the devil himself was trying to pop her left eyeball out. God, she just wanted to lay down. Lay down, with a nice, cool lavender compress and be unconscious until all the discomfort was passed.

However, falling asleep during an attempt on your life seemed like a bad idea.

So she paced. The room was five paces long by five paces wide, not counting the benches. She had to give her budding migraine some credit, the pain in her head was a distraction from her nudity.

“How’s it coming?”

“Sweat keeps getting in my eyes, but it’s coming. You know I used to really enjoy sitting in a sauna?” She laughed ironically, pushing her sodden bangs back from her forehead and refocusing on the lock. It was still an oppressive heat, but without the constant renewal of steam it wasn’t quite as hazy anymore.

“Really? This is only my second experience with one, and I must admit, I’m not a fan.” She was whistling in the dark, but anything was better than thinking about how she was going to die naked unless Opal managed to pick this lock with two of hair grips.

“Can’t imagine why.” Edith rubbed her eyes, not that her sweaty palms did anything to get the sweat out of her eyes but pressing back against the pressure in her head did momentarily bring a bit of relief.

There was movement in the hall. At first, she thought it was just her eyes adjusting to her pressing on them and the sweat dripping off her lashes, but it didn’t go away. In fact, it was getting closer.

“Opal, there’s someone in the hall.”

“Probably those sadistic bitches back to watch us cook to death.” Edith took a step closer to the window, wiping the steam and condensation away from the glass as best she could.

“They look too tall to be Moreau and Gregson.” The outlines were more distinct without the fog, but it was too dark to say with confidence who was coming toward them.

“Maybe they sent someone to finish us off. I’m almost done with this lock I think, maybe if we charge them, they’ll be too surprised to shoot us.” Two (mostly) naked women barging out of a steam room would certainly qualify as a surprise. Edith stepped to the glass, pressing her face against it like that might improve the dimness of the hallway. There was just enough light that she could make out a silhouette of who approached. Neither figure was as broad as the men who’d relieved them of their clothes, nor as small as the woman. And no one in Moreau and Gregson’s gang had been wearing a hat, let alone a hat as distinctive as the rounded bobby helmet.

“I think it’s Fox and Constable Flowers!” Oh please, oh please, oh please. She wanted out of the sauna like she wanted her next breath (almost literally, even with the steam vent blocked it was still extremely difficult to breath). She’d take any punishment Fox could devise for her if she could just breath again without drowning.

“What?! Are you sure?” Opal looked up from the lock.

“Fairly. One is wearing that rounded helmet constables do.”

“You mean the ones that make them look like dicks?” Edith’s wedding had fallen apart before her honeymoon, so she wasn’t particularly familiar with penises, but she had seen a few during her time helping the convalescing soldiers. She looked out again at the figures in the hall, drawing steadily closer. And she had to agree, now that Opal said it, she could not un-see how phallic they looked.

“That’s the one.” She confirmed. “HELP!” She screamed. They’d not bothered scramming when they were first locked in the Sauna, they had known no one would let them out. They had been better served saving their energy, their voice, and getting to work devising a plan. But she screamed now, banging frantically on the glass. The figures sped up.

“Don’t bang on the door, I’ve almost got the lock!” It was hard not to, but she tried, waving frantically, screaming as much as she could. She was tired. And it was hard to draw a full breath in the heat and humidity. The figures moved quicker.

“Alllmost…” The figures had just stepped into the circle of light from the sauna when Opal threw the door open, “THERE!”

The door flew open and Edith followed after it, stumbling out of the shower and directly into the would-be rescuers, Opal tumbling behind her.

“Detective Fox!” She’d landed smack into him. The man had frozen; eyes very wide. They had seen ALL of her and were now panicked searching for a place to rest his gaze while she regained her balance.

“Lady Edith!” He blushed scarlet, eyes fixing at a place over her shoulder. From the floor she could see Opal pushing herself up, an amused and triumphant smile on her lips.

“Detective Fox.” She greeted him more conversationally.

“OPAL!” Further conversation was cut short as Lori rounded the corner, running down the hall like their knight errant five minutes late. After her two young constables skidded and slipped trying to follow. Opal was on her feet in a moment and in her _flat mate_ ’s embrace a second later.

“Lori!”[2]

**#**

It was nearly morning by the time she had answered all of Fox’s questions and was allowed to leave. She was absolutely bone exhausted but grateful for the late/early hour as the police car dropped her off in front of Bond House. Not even the milk man was out on his round yet, which meant there were no witnesses, as far as she could tell, to see her slink out of a black car and up the steps of her Aunt’s Belgravia house in nothing but Detective Fox’s overcoat.

The downside of the early hour was that the house would be locked tight and her key had been in her skirt pocket. Constable’s had been securing the scene when Fox had ushered her, Opal, and Lori off to the police station for formal interview and haranguing. So, they had perhaps been able to recover her clothes, though not in time to give her a more dignified arrival back at Bond House. Detective Fox had already given her a verbal hiding and Edith braced herself for what Rosamund had in store. Even if she somehow missed the fact she wasn’t there when she arrived home (a solid possibility since Rosamund had told her not to wait up when she’d left for the concert), ringing the bell in the wee small hours of the morning was a clear confession. Bracing herself Edith put her hand on bell.

The door swung open before she rang.

Rosamund was dressed in her nightclothes although it was plain to see she’d never slept.

She was livid. Incandescent with rage. And so much like Papa there was no mistaking the Crawley blood. No one could quite pull off furious like a Crawley. Not even the shock of her attire could fully put out the flame of her anger. Rosamund barely moved out of the door to let her pass. Edith brushed past her quickly, if she was going to be lectured it would be in the house. She could feel her Aunt’s grey eyes taking in every inch of her from her frazzled hair to her bare feet.

“ _Just where have you been_?!” Rosamund demanded, closing the front door with a snap. Edith wheeled around to face her Aunt; her head held high. Detective Fox certainly hadn’t been impressed with her, even though without her intervention (interference) he’d never have arrested George Whitten and the Gregson’s poor maid would have gone to trial for a murder she didn’t commit. But _damnit_ she was proud of herself and of Opal and Lori.

“I’ve just solved a murder!”

* * *

[1] In case you were wondering, Edith and Opal are two halves of a whole idiot while poor Lori is the unheeded voice of reason. (When Anthony appears on the scene, he’s also going to be an unheeded voice of reason, but unlike Lori he secretly enjoys the shenanigans more than he’s willing to admit).

[2] [Janet!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfNfQixs8yA)

I almost feel bad for how Michael comes off in this, poor man probably doesn't deserve this level of character assassination. On the other hand, I already killed him off; in for a penny, in for a pound - let's just accuse him of ALL THE THINGS!


	10. IX. Epilogue: 25 November 1920 [Wednesday]

The fallout was swift and complete. Whitten’s confession had started the ball rolling. The break-in at the spa had been the perfect reason to search the back where they had found, in addition to attempted murder, a not insignificant amount of cocaine as well as Paris Green pigment. A warrant for Adélaïde Moreau’s arrest has been easy to obtain with corroborating evidence. Moreau had held out a full thirty-six hours before turning on her ‘dear friend’, telling the police every detail of Lizzie Gregson’s plan and Patrick Carter-Nelson’s other empire. By the end of the week Whitten, Moreau, Elizabeth Gregson and her father were all behind bars.

Then the newspapers got ahold of the story. And who could blame them? It was simply too good to pass up. The original reports of fine, upstanding, journalist Michael Gregson, one of their own on the strand were soon replaced with sordid tales of serial infidelity and chronic drug use. His wife who had murdered his loves and then him out of burning hot anger and cold-hearted business. The press had dubbed her the Snow Queen.

The scandal of it all was making banner sales for the newspapers. The public couldn’t get enough of the sordid tale of lust and drugs and murderous women. It was a small mercy that Edith’s name had never appeared in the fray and she knew she had Detective Fox to thank for that. It was the smallest of mercies. Michael Gregson’s magazine had not been so lucky. Although there was nothing objectionable about the contents of _The Sketch_ itself, because it had been edited by such a confirmed reprobate and funded by a drug baroness and her father the content could have been nothing but reprints of Fordyce’s sermons and subscribers would have still dropped it.

Edith went into the office every day (after recovering from the attempt on her life and convincing Aunt Rosamund that she shouldn’t be put under house arrest or worse, shipped off back to Downton) and every day brought worse news than the day before. It was hard to concentrate on an article when it felt like the world was crashing down around their ears.

Monday, they had officially lost a quarter of their subscribers. Tuesday Mr. Fellowes had tended his resignation, the week before Weaver had left, apparently the drugs and affairs and allegations that the magazine had been a money laundering scheme was too much even for her moral crusade. Which of course meant that the entire Art Department was in shambles without its office manager. And then of course, the memorial article written when Gregson had first died and slated to run in the magazine now was wildly inappropriate. According to Opal, whom Edith had only seen in fits and starts running between meetings trying to keep the all the balls in the air and the Magazine in the black, Roger Darling, the remaining editor and owner was thinking of scrapping everything and starting over.

Thinking of Roger, a shadow fell over her desk. Edith looked up to meet Mr. Darling’s kind brown eyes.

“Lady Edith, might I borrow you for a moment?” He asked hesitantly.

“Of course, Mr. Darling, how can I help you?”

“It’s an important matter, if you’d join me in my office.” She’d never been in Mr. Darling’s office, unsurprising since she’d rarely been in the Art Department. The lower floor had the same general layout as the one above, a central office anchoring the back wall and open workspace in a U-shape around it, stairs to the editorial floor on one end and the door to the elevator and outside stair on the other. There were more drafting tables than desks on the floor, a photography studio with camera and backdrop in one corner near the windows. They passed a free-standing wall with themes and illustrations for the next issue brainstormed to enter the Art Director’s office.

The office suffered the same overabundance of wood paneling and beige that Michael’s office upstairs had. However, where Gregson had tried to fill the space with knickknacks from abroad and cocaine and an impressive collection of single malt, Darling had chosen to take his blank canvas and make it a gallery. There was art everywhere, the wall opposite the door was fairly groaning under the weight of so many prints and paintings. The bookcases were full of old copies of _The Sketch_ as well as every book on design and art history from the Romans to China to contemporary America. Roger Darling didn’t have a traditional desk in his office, but rather a large worn drafting table and a stool. Unsurprising considering, he was both the Art Director and an artist in his own right, but it did make taking a seat opposite him rather awkward. Mr. Darling took a seat on his stool for a full three seconds before standing up with an awkward chuckle. He ran a long hand over his smooth head (as if he’d forgotten he no longer had hair) and adjusted his glasses.

“Lady Edith, I’m sure you’re well aware of the trouble _The Sketch_ is in.”

“Yes.” She nodded, folding her hands in her lap.

“Michael and I owned 25% of _The Sketch_ each with the other 50% of the magazine split between Patrick Carter-Nelson, his daughter Elizabeth Gregson, and other investors. With Michael dead and his wife and father-in-law in prison…. We have both a crisis of authority and a cashflow problem.” Edith nodded, according to Opal close to 75% of _The Sketch_ had been controlled by the Gregsons and Carter-Nelson.

“I’ve been able to cover about half of what we need,” Darling continued, “Thank God Millicent got married _last_ year,” He added more to himself than to her, “But the magazine is still in danger.” The way he wasn’t looking at her she could tell what he was going to ask.

Money. She couldn’t blame him for being uncomfortable.

“Have we lost many of the other investors?” Was he going to need her to cover _all_ of the remaining debts?

“Not that many, thankfully. Admittedly there weren’t that many aside from Lizzie and Patrick. We had a meeting, the remaining investors and I, last night.” The price quote had to be imminent. “If _The Sketch_ is going to survive it is going to need new leadership. I am not an editor; I never have been, and I have never wanted to be. _The Sketch_ needs a new editor-in-chief and we want it to be you.”

That was not what she had expected him to say.

“Me?! Editor-in-chief? I just thought you needed an injection of cash.” Darling actually seemed to relax a bit at her surprise, he chuckled warmly.

“Oh, that wouldn’t hurt.” He admitted, still smiling. “But we want you as our editor-in-chief for more than just monetary reasons. Your column is extremely popular Lady Edith, I’m not sure if Michael told you just how popular – with readers and with investors. Your column is always well researched, excellently written, clearly argued and hits the right political notes with our target audience. And then there is your title, after everything that has come out about Michael Gregson, we’ve tried to find someone who’s reputation would be his antithesis. What scandal could possibly attach itself to the Earl of Grantham’s second daughter?” _HA!_ It took all of her ladylike poise to keep from laughing. _As far as the family is concerned,_ I am _a scandal!_

“You realize that to my Grandmother my position here is already a scandal?” Granny had been most unimpressed when Edith announced her intentions to write full time. Although she also knew she read her column (or, more realistically Collins read her column and passed on any potentially scandalous content), Granny’s last letter had been full of opinions on her opinion piece.

“Alright, so perhaps not completely scandal free, but it’s a scandal they are willing to accept. Will you take on the role, be our editor-in-chief?”

“I’ll need to think about it.” She wasn’t lying in the slightest. “May I see the proposal? And how much money the magazine still needs?”

In the end Edith accepted the position. Editor-in-Chief of _The Sketch_ Magazine. She’d even dipped into her trust fund to formally buy the other half of the magazine, making her co-owner along with Roger. They’d drawn up an agreement the following week. Roger had the final word on all art and artistic aspects of the magazine, aside from a full Veto from Edith. She had complete editorial control over what was published, aside from Roger’s full Veto. She and Roger had agreed to a new direction for the magazine, a complete overhaul to distance themselves from the mess that was Gregson. _The Sketch_ Magazine before had been much more centered on current events and opinion, under Edith’s new vision it would skew more towards a literary magazine with serialized stories and poetry every month along with more in-depth literary criticism, book reviews, a section dedicated to visual art, as well as interviews with authors _and_ artists. There would also be a lifestyle component, ranging from expanded sections for theatre and concert reviews, a style and entertaining section, and a social section with both society gossip and more politically conscious pieces. A ‘one stop shop’ for a well-rounded reader. It was ambitious, but if they could pull it off the vision was much clearer than Gregson’s ever had been.

In addition to her Trust Fund Edith also managed to secure two more investors for the magazine, nearly doubling their funding in one fell swoop. Rosamund Painswick and Martha Levinson enthusiastically invested in _The Sketch_ on (in Grandma Martha’s case) two conditions: one, their investments would last as long as Edith remained involved with the Magazine and two, _The Sketch_ hired more women writers and artists. By the time Edith returned to Downton for Christmas she was officially the co-owner and Editor-in-Chief of _The Sketch_ magazine and soon to be a permanent fixture in London.

The End

( _For now_ )[1]

* * *

[1] Lady Edith will be back solving murders with Opal, Lori, and Detective Fox soon.

Look for her return in _Blow Gabriel Blow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been spending my time sheltering at home working on my dissertation (of course, don't tell my advisor otherwise) and a sequel to this story. I can't make any promises on when it'll be done, but it is in the works.


End file.
